


Aubade

by saisei



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Assassination Attempt(s), Background Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum, Blind Character, Blood and Injury, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Gladiolus Amicitia/Prompto Argentum/Ignis Scientia, Politics, Post-Canon, Recovery, Stairs, Whump, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-04 04:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17297597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: I carried you like this when you were a child, Ignis remembered, shifting his numbing arm so Noct's head rolled against his shoulder in a terrible parody of that childhood intimacy. He'd thought Noct heavy then; the weight now was killing him.Six, if you've any mercy, give us back the darkness, and not a world without him.There was so much he'd wanted to say, and to hear. There had been, in the end, too little time.The sun crept over the horizon. Ignis heard Gladio and Prompto's steps falter, and sensed unfamiliar warmth across his cheek. He kept walking, one resolute step at a time, slow as a dirge, toward his final duty to his king.In his arms, Noct stiffened and shuddered, gasped and thrashed like a fish yanked from water. Ignis could neither hold him nor drop him, so he fell to his knees, pulling Noct up against his chest roughly.The dawn brought miracles, but in their wake Ignis struggled to rebuild his life in a world reeling from the apocalypse and strained by old political conflicts.





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [egelantier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/egelantier/gifts).



> > But as to risings, I can tell you why.  
> It is on contradiction that they grow.  
> It seemed the best thing to be up and go.  
> Up was the heartening and the strong reply.  
> The heart of standing is we cannot fly. (William Empson, Aubade)

Ignis did not see the dawn.

He didn't care. _Fuck_ the dawn, he thought, because as the sky lightened Gladio passed him Noct's lifeless body; it was his turn to carry their king to final rest. They were exhausted, dirty, injured, bereaved. Ignis was amazed they'd managed to stagger out from the Citadel with the weight of this, their last duty. Gladio was dazed and forgetful from a blow to the head which had left his hair tacky with blood; Prompto's footsteps betrayed a heavy limp; Ignis himself was likely not well, but it was hard to put a name to physical pains when his heart and soul were as dead as the man in his arms.

 _I carried you like this when you were a child_ , he remembered, shifting his numbing arm so Noct's head rolled against his shoulder in a terrible parody of that childhood intimacy. He'd thought Noct heavy then; the weight now was killing him. _Six, if you've any mercy, give us back the darkness, and not a world without him._ There was so much he'd wanted to say, and to hear. There had been, in the end, too little time.

The sun crept over the horizon. Ignis heard Gladio and Prompto's steps falter, and sensed unfamiliar warmth across his cheek. He kept walking, one resolute step at a time, slow as a dirge, toward his final duty to his king.

In his arms, Noct stiffened and shuddered, gasped and thrashed like a fish yanked from water. Ignis could neither hold him nor drop him, so he fell to his knees, pulling Noct up against his chest roughly. The miracle should have been greeted with dignity and songs of praise, but instead Ignis tore Noct's shirt open until he found skin and pressed his palm there, even as he curled his face down towards Noct's.

He felt a breath, a heartbeat; another, another. Gladio and Prompto joined him on the ground, trying to pry him away from Noct so they could see for themselves. Ignis ignored them, tuned their words out, made those signs of life the entirety of his awareness. He was only recalled to himself when he heard his name, then "Specs," followed by feeble, hoarse laughter that he felt perfectly entitled to join in, there in the middle of a broken road in a ruined city, clutching his king in the perfect, glorious dawn.

Darkness would return, that was its nature, but it was all worth it for this, the gift of the light.

*

Prompto had always referred to the time just after sunrise as the golden hour, when the lighting was optimal for photography. Ignis' golden hours – golden days, golden _weeks_ – were the liminal, sublime period following Noct's awakening from death. The world's edges softened, cares seemed far away. He was happy; blissfully so. He luxuriated in the feeling of freedom brought by the conclusion of the visions he'd carried as his own personal darkness for a decade. If he still snapped awake from dreams in which he saw Noct stabbed to death, he now had the comfort of knowing the worst had already happened. The future to come was unknown to him and he welcomed it, but first... he was taking some time off.

Persuading the others to join him was ridiculously easy. The drive back to Hammerhead was slow, as Prompto was the only driver Ignis trusted behind the wheel, and Ignis spent most of the time on the phone. He arranged for medics to meet them and tasked Talcott and Cindy with keeping the news of their return quiet. The very last thing he wanted was for their reunion with Noct to be gate-crashed by curiosity-seekers, pilgrims full of religious fervor, or bearers of political demands.

His worries on the last front proved unnecessary, to his great relief. The government of Lestallum greeted the new era's dawn by immediately commencing stage one of resettlement, according to plans years in the making. Convoys of trucks were deployed; crews were sent to assess the safety of train and ropeway lines; the farmlands they'd kept lit for a decade were expanded in anticipation of a population boom in a year. Manufacturing and hunting would need to be heavily regulated, to prevent overtaxing strained resources. Ignis was privy to some knowledge of the council's scheme, and every new report he received eased his worries further. The council was firmly in control, and survival was still first and foremost in most people's minds. For now, they didn't question the sun's return.

As far as religion went, popular sentiment was that the world had been abandoned by the gods, and good riddance. Noct claimed that the crystal had returned to the heart of the world, and without Kings, rings, Oracles, or interfering gods, there were rumors that magic had begun to flow freely, as in ancient times. While this was potentially dangerous, due to the unpredictable and illogical nature of magic, sightings of magic in those first few weeks all seemed whimsical enough. Barren fields bloomed with sylleblossoms overnight; the runes of the havens sang, Ignis heard from hunters passing through, with otherworldly beauty. He thought he would like to see that for himself.

But immediately after their return from Insomnia, Noct had no command over magic and the armiger was gone. The medic was skilled at working without potions, and for Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto this was simply how things were. Ten years of darkness had taught them to be as parsimonious with curatives as with any precious finite resource; Noct was the one who sulked and chafed most at not being able to recover to full health immediately.

"I don't know why you're breathing," the medic told him, sounding exasperated as she examined the new scars on Noct's chest and back. From what Ignis heard, they looked ghastly. "Or walking." 

"Barely walking," Noct corrected, his impatience showing. Which was true – Prompto, on crutches for his twisted knee, moved faster – but Ignis was hardly about to demand that the gods send a better miracle. He was grateful enough for the one he had, even though Noct thought poorly of the back and leg braces and daily strength-building exercises he had to do. He was, Ignis kept realizing with shock and surprise, in many ways still so much younger than the rest of them.

Gladio seemed to be unbothered – or at least amused – by Noct's relative youth and coped with his convalescent boredom by casting himself in the role of Noct's physical therapist and storyteller. Noct seemed satisfied with that arrangement, willing to make an effort so long as that earned him embarrassing stories about Ignis or highly embellished stories of how awesome the Amicitia siblings were in battle. Prompto often joined them, ostensibly to aid his own recovery (and to check up on-slash-check out Gladio, Ignis was sure), and made every exercise into a competitive game.

Ignis, not wanting to be in the way, found himself falling into the habit of disturbing Takka in the diner kitchen, trading work for the ingredients to prepare Noct's favorite meals (and depending on what horrific mortification Gladio had dredged up, Gladio's _least_ favorites). This simple domesticity made a quiet bubble where Ignis' happiness took root and bloomed. His favorite people, the battle won, pleasant activity: he wanted nothing more.

The outside world encroached, however, no matter how insistent Ignis was that he did not welcome the intrusion. Talcott was the most common bearer of news and judgment. He kept Ignis updated on the less rosy side of the current political situation: groups of people who rejected Lestallum's rule and wanted to create their own monarchies, empires, or religious states – not that Lestallum cared, but territory disputes could very easily become a tinderbox. No state so far had a standing army; Lestallum's Civil Guard had operated outside the city lights, but though its mandate was to protect the people, typical dangers had never originated with other people. 

But now roads and newly-reopened rail lines traveled through areas with multiple claims; some groups had started setting up toll booths, others posted ominous billboards, still others sent threats in to government offices and radio stations. 

During the dark years, Gladio and Iris had worked closely with the Civil Guard, and Ignis supposed they would continue to do so, even if that way led to conflict. Hunters, on the other hand, were generally apolitical. They might have a contract with the government, or not. The council was very keen to preserve natural habitats and make sure no species were driven to extinction by an exploding human population, and word was that they were making good offers for people who could advise groups of resettlers on the best places to build and farm without danger.

That was where Talcott's persistence kicked in. With the daemon threat neutralized, Imperial bases and outposts could be converted to peacetime use, provided they didn't hold any lethal surprises. Clearing them out was a hunter job as well, and Talcott had volunteered immediately.

He kept asking Ignis if he didn't want to come. "Pretty much everything I know about Niff tech and traps you taught me," he said one afternoon, around bites of his sandwich. "We could use you out there. When you're ready, I guess." He sounded impatient.

Ignis reminded him tartly that he hadn't had a day off in a decade, and begrudging him a few weeks of rest was petty.

Talcott made a sound of not-quite acceptance. "I hear Noct's not going to be king anymore," he went on. "Which, okay. I can see that. Probably safer, the way things look now, plus he's paid his dues. But it means you're a free agent."

Ignis silently – but pointedly – moved the plate of freshly-baked biscuits off the service counter, placing it beside the dishes he'd made for the evening meal. 

Talcott swallowed his mouthful with a gulp. "I didn't get one of those yet." 

"I know."

That was met with a sigh, but when Ignis didn't relent, Talcott took another bite of his sandwich. He was still chewing when he finally said, "You hear about the Oracle? Or I guess I should say Lady Lunafreya."

Despite the kitchen's warmth, a chill went through Ignis. "I cannot say I have."

"Word is, at dawn she walked out of her tomb wearing the dress she was buried in," Talcott said. He slurped at his tea. "Freaked a lot of people out, cause they figured she was some kind of daemon, but it's been a month and they believe her now. She's going to be heading up to Lestallum for a big political thing. I imagine Noct's going to get an invite – thought I'd tell him first. Seemed kinder."

"Yes," Ignis said, mouth dry. His hands had gone cold, and he had to force himself not to fold his arms across his chest for comfort. "I believe you are correct. Thank you."

"No problem." Talcott slid off the stool, boots hitting the floor lightly. "Let me just wash this up, and I'll go do that." A plate scraped on the counter, and china was stacked together. "It'd be my honor to drive Noct there. And anyone else who wants to come."

Lists of tasks and preparations bubbled into Ignis' head, unbidden and unwanted, displacing recipes and his other distractions in one clean sweep. "I'll have to get our uniforms in order, I suppose." He'd had them washed, scrubbed as clean as was possible, but he didn't want to think about the rips and the holes. Or how they'd been inflicted.

Talcott rounded the counter and filled the dishpan from the bucket under the sink. The scent of soap and the sounds of scrubbing followed. Ignis allowed himself just a moment to mourn, selfishly; he'd loved having Noct – alive and whole – to himself. And then he took a deep breath and refused to indulge his feelings further.

"Would you send Noct and the others over for dinner when you're done talking?" he asked, taking Takka's spare apron off and hanging it on the peg by the door. "I have some phone calls to make."

"Sure thing," Talcott said, as easy-going as always. "See you around."

"Likewise," Ignis replied, distracted by the need for plans and schemes and statistics. He stepped out into the late afternoon sun, face tipping up reflexively to feel the warmth. All their sacrifices, he reminded himself, were worthwhile, and he accepted the yoke of his duties, heavier now after momentary reprieve, without looking back or regrets. He took a deep breath and made his first call.


	2. Chapter 2

"So, who's on my dance card?" Noct asked, having finally grown bored of grilling Talcott and Prompto questions about the landscape around them. Ignis knew it had changed since they'd first set out from Insomnia – obviously – but he hadn't thought to ask what the world looked like, or realize that the scars of battles and losses could be so easily read from the backseat of a moving car.

But now he had to leave off the pointless game of trying to construct a visual in his head, and instead assume the role of advisor. He found that, like his uniform, it fit oddly these days.

"Please don't call it that," he said, a kneejerk reaction that he immediately regretted. "The political situation is fraught enough without – "

"Making dumb jokes?"

The edge to Noct's voice reminded Ignis that he was equally uncomfortable. "Implying that you're the most eligible debutante at the ball."

Ignis was nudged in the arm, and Noct sounded closer when he spoke. "You haven't seen my dress yet."

"I shan't be seeing it tomorrow, either," Ignis reminded him, trying to hold back a smile, and got poked again. "The chair and council already worry that you and Lady Lunafreya will leverage your positions as heads of state – "

"Former," Noct corrected.

"– or as religious leaders," Ignis went on. "With the dissolution of Lucis and Niflheim, we're only spared widespread warfare between fledgling nations because of the framework Lestallum has been building for the past decade. But it's a flimsy construction at best, and sooner rather than later disputes over water rights or mining or industrial pollution will test diplomatic relations to their limits. Having the savior of the world or the former Oracle take one side or another..."

"Would be bad," Noct summarized. "We learned from the same teachers, Specs. And I'm not as dumb as I look."

"I wouldn't know," Ignis pointed out. "So please – you're invited as an expert consultant, try not to step on anyone's toes."

Noct's fingers drummed against Ignis' shoulder. "Quiz me about these people and their toes again. And then I want to practice my speech some more." He shifted, aiming his voice at the front seat, where Prompto and Talcott were arguing about various animals winning absurd contests. "We almost to where Gladio is?"

"Another hour," Prompto said, loose and easy, like he hadn't been counting down the seconds to their rendezvous. Gladio had left three weeks previously, and Ignis didn't envy him – and the rest of the Civil Guard – the nightmare of trying to provide security without looking like they were trying to intimidate the delegates. _Sure don't need any assassination attempts on my watch,_ Iris had said when she'd issued Noct his official lodgings and schedule. "What's Iggy going to give you if you get all your answers right?"

"I'm more worried about him stabbing me in my sleep if I get anything wrong," Noct said, with wry fondness. "He's got a temper."

Ignis flipped out one of the small knives he had up his sleeve and gave it a quick twirl before secreting it away again. 

"Not in Cindy's car," Talcott yelped.

Ignis rolled his unparalyzed eye, moderately confident that Talcott wouldn't see, and took a breath, reviewing his mental array of people Noct should be wary of, allies, and their various interpersonal connections. "Start with the delegation from Accordo." He leaned his head back, clearing his head and focusing. Noct had done his best to cram ten years' worth of politics in a handful of weeks; Ignis wouldn't ever say so, but he was impressed.

Noct would have made a good king, he thought, not for the first time. But today the accompanying wave of grief and loss didn't drag him under, which was good. A sign that the wound was scarring over, to be hidden away with the others, under crisp uniforms and dark glasses.

*

Gladio and Prompto did not fly into each others' arms at the pull-over just east of the city where the checkpoint had been set up, but Noct tugged Ignis close to whisper that there was some serious eyefucking going on.

"Language," Ignis protested, because that certainly wasn't something a – a delegate should be saying. "And pay attention."

Noct breathed out an amused _sir yes sir_ , but behaved, accepting his assigned guards without protest and agreeing to not wander around the city despite the temptations of the marketplace and the magnificent views. Noct and Ignis would be staying at the home of one of the council members with a group of biologists and cosmogonists, as the hotel was full of the actual diplomats.

Councilwoman Hino was there – Ignis found out belatedly, irked that he'd been inadvertently ignoring her – to make sure Noct didn't see this as a slight. She sounded stressed; Ignis could well imagine.

"As long as there's a mattress, I'm fine," Noct assured her. "I guarantee I can sleep anywhere."

"After ten years in a rock, probably even floorboards are comfy," Prompto added, grinning, his happiness enough to take the edge off the conversation. "Man, wait til you see the city, it has _changed_."

Ignis knew Lestallum like the back of his own hand, but he still found himself staying to the sidelines of Noct's conversation as they got back in the car, having swapped Prompto out for the councilwoman. Noct kept asking _what's that?_ or _what happened there?_ or _when did all that get built?_ Hino kept up a series of smooth, edited replies that neatly skirted grittier truths. The seven-story blocks of flats that climbed the hillside behind the old city like the spokes of a fan had been packed full of refugees. Up to eight people to a room, despite all the kitchens and bathrooms being located on the ground floors. The stench and the misery had been a scourge all of its own.

"Our temporary solution to the housing crisis," Hino said. "Most residents have applied for resettlement, as I'm sure you can imagine. Oh, dear." Ignis heard the sound of her window being rolled up, but not entirely cutting off the sound of a crowd that grew louder as the car approached. "I see we weren't entirely able to keep your name out of the media."

"They're not protesters, I guess that's good," Noct said. "Do I wave?"

"Yes, but don't let them call you king," Ignis said on a sigh. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off a headache. 

As he suspected, it didn't work.

*

The crowd was still there the next morning, with the same signs, Noct reported as they left Hino's house. The venue was close enough to walk to, and Iris had given her approval, saying that they'd have a better chance of making an escape on foot – though buildings and alleyways – than in a car. Being surrounded by people made Ignis twitchy, even though he knew they were being polite and letting security clear the way for Noct to pass.

Noct seemed genuinely touched by the turnout. "There's so many people," he said, sounding awed. "I hadn't realized... Are they all Insomnians?"

Hino, breaking from her role as poised guide, raised her voice and asked the crowd. Their replies overlapped more often than not, reflecting the reality of the modern, post-apocalyptic world: everyone had fled from somewhere – Insomnia, but also Niflheim, Galahd, Accordo, and so on – to become part of the last stand, here or in outposts like Hammerhead. And now that flow of humanity was both reversed and unconstrained, the greatest fear was that the spirit of cooperation and brotherhood that had kept them alive would disintegrate. That instead of being citizens of Eos, they'd retreat behind nations and, eventually, walls and armies.

As they walked on, Ignis wondered if keeping Noct sequestered in Hammerhead had been the right thing to do. He found the throng disorienting, but Noct was smiling and waving and letting people snap pictures. He'd given his life to save everyone here, and these faces were proof that they were thriving. Too late for regrets now, Ignis supposed, but he spent the rest of the walk feeling off-balance and questioning his judgment.

Lestallum prided itself on not wasting resources on excess, not even when the fate of the world was being discussed. The delegates were assembled in the spacious central workers' cafeteria, the tables arranged in a U-shape facing the podium and Chair's desk. All the preparations still could not entirely eradicate the smells of spices and cabbage.

Prompto, having somehow managed to detach himself from Gladio, took his seat beside Ignis and provided commentary of a sort, describing delegates and decorations and musing about lunch as the conference got underway. When Luna went to the front for her address, he let Ignis know that she was wearing appropriately utilitarian clothes – _but classy, you know_. A white belted dress, with blue sylleblossoms in her hair. Ignis couldn't picture her as older, but then again, her mother the Queen had always looked young for her age.

After introducing herself and giving a brief outline of her work as the Oracle, Luna said, "I gave my childhood and my life to the Gods and Tenebrae." Ignis was still so distracted by the sheer impossibility of hearing her voice once again that the words' meaning took a moment to percolate. He could hear several people behind him sniffling into handkerchiefs. "I will always be glad to give assistance where it is needed, but the sun rose on a world both without the starscrouge and without kings and Oracles. I no longer know if that is by the will of the gods, but – I hope so. My time is passed; now is the era of the people."

(On his other side, Noct leaned closer to Ignis and asked _Can I just quote her?_ under his breath. Ignis tapped his knee twice in reply, their signal to be quiet, sit up straight, and _behave_.)

Luna went on to talk briefly about the needs of Tenebrae's citizens, but deferred all questions to the governors, who, she reminded the assembly, knew far more about the current situation than she did. When she finished the whole room went to their feet and applauded; partly in relief, Ignis knew, but mostly out of respect.

Noct was by no means a charismatic public speaker, and his nerves showed as he took the podium next. He joked about needing to rely on his note cards, but Ignis was still proud of him. He did not use the phrase _hell no_ once, despite it having been prominent in all his rehearsals. He spoke about rebuilding infrastructure, the importance of drafting international laws that treated all people fairly, and the need for medical clinics and above all, schools.

"Forgotten history from two thousand years ago rose up and nearly destroyed all of us," he said, "and we had no clue. We owe our descendants as much history as we can pass on." Ignis recognized his own ideas, albeit voiced in clumsier words, and felt his face warm despite how utterly undignified blushing was.

Later, at the reception, Ignis found himself bounced around like a pinball, escaping from the clutches of one person who wanted him to join their project onto to fall prey to another. He'd believed that when he went to join Noct in Hammerhead, he was leaving behind the life he'd known for ten years of darkness. He'd seen the visions, after all; it had only been prudent to say his goodbyes and give away mementos to those he'd been close to.

He almost felt foolish, now, for having returned, his faith in his own impending death having been proven false.

He finally had to get away from even the well-meaning people and make an escape outside, where if his memory served there was a paved courtyard housing the kitchen herb garden. He supposed he looked ridiculous, crouched down in his dress uniform with his gloves in one hand, trying to identify plants by their scent and the shapes of their leaves. But he found it soothing, and perhaps his eccentricity would put off the next potential recruiter.

"Is that coerl-mint?" Luna asked from the doorway, and then Ignis heard the click of her heels as she crossed the terracotta tiles. "Oh, don't get up," she added, and her hand ghosted over Ignis' forearm as she passed. He stood anyway, off-balance and trying not to feel resentful at the loss of his solitude. "Unless you'd care to join me – there's a spare chair," she added. He heard the sound of one chair being pulled out, and the rustle of her dress as she settled. "I tire far too easily, though I suppose it's age. One would think, ten years of rest would have a better effect, but..."

Ignis felt ungainly and stiff. He remembered being a teenager, the year he'd returned home for his annual visit and found himself taller than both his parents. They'd found it amusing; his self-awareness had been excruciating. He made his way over to the round cafe-style table and managed to sit without banging into anything or stepping on Luna's toes. He could feel her looking at him and made himself not turn the bad side of his face away, though he'd been reliably informed it was shocking and he thought she should be spared that. He crossed one knee over the other and folded his hands on them.

"If I might ask you for a favor," Luna said after a moment. "I'm being driven slowly out of my mind by well-wishers who seem to want nothing more from me than... my story to end with a fairy-tale wedding. I know their intentions are kind," she added hastily. "And I assure you, I still love Noct as my dearest childhood friend. But he and I have spoken, at some length, and we feel these new lives of ours are not a gift from the gods to be sacrificed yet again. They're... reparations, if you will. A gift, which we can use as we wish. And what I wish most of all is to be free."

"Quite understandable," Ignis said. He could well imagine that if a tabloid press still existed, Luna would be excoriated and her wishes seen as selfish. How dare the Oracle, and so on. "You asked for a favor?" He tried to keep the trepidation out of his voice, but to his own ears he sounded cold. Luna must have smiled – he could picture her so clearly in his head – to meet that chill with so much of her own warmth in her reply.

"I did." She placed her hand over his, and he was glad he could repress his flinch. "I would ask for your support. To not intimate, as some do, that there will be a wedding and the world will be healed so simply. I want to be," she started, then stopped. Her fingers tightened. "I want to _be_."

"As you wish," Ignis replied, when he was sure she was done speaking. "Though if I may.... I gave you my condolences on the death of your brother, but I was remiss to not make it clear that while no one can equal him in your heart, you have my friendship. Should you need a friend."

Luna drew a shaky breath. "You are very kind." She pulled back and away, the clasp of her bag on the table clicking open. "I just got this," she said apologetically. "I'm afraid I don't understand the technology yet, but – may I have your number?"

As Ignis recited the digits – twice, because Luna accidentally deleted his contact information the first time – he felt on the verge of giddy, undignified laughter. The whole fraught journey to Altissia to meet the Oracle, to unite a world at war, and to win the favor of the gods – that the ultimate culmination of it all was this absurd moment: sitting in the sun outside a cafeteria full of politicians trying to stave off the specters of dissent, terrorism, and war, listening to Luna type out a stilted text.

 _I am very pleased to make your acquaintance. Sincerely, Luna_ , followed by a heart-mark, which she said Prompto had taught her. She stood, leaning over the table to watch the message arrive on Ignis' phone, and burst into irrepressible giggles when her words were read out.

"Your phone reader's a _man_ ," she finally managed to explain. "So _rugged_." She sent another message immediately.

 _I sound HILARIOUS_ she sent, immediately followed by, _Let's go show Noct. He was being talked at by the Accordian delegation._

"Oh dear." Ignis thought that sounded alarming, and stood, rescinding his moment of reprieve. "If I may prevail on you for guidance..."

"I shan't lead you astray," Luna assured him somberly, and took his proffered arm. "Back into the fray with us."

*

Despite his personal dislike for the dance-card metaphor, Ignis had to admit it was apt. Following the successful summit, he and Noct were swept away by a succession of different partners. No longer bound by duty – not king and advisor, nor would they be ever again – they had no reason to continue working together. The farms and villages that had supported Insomnia (and which Insomnia had done such a poor job protecting) were being resettled, and despite the majority of them setting up Lestallum-style electorates, with their own chairs and committees, there were still the inevitable legal disputes whose roots stretched back to Lucian rule.

For local politicians and lawyers, having a Lucis Caelum around who knew where crown lands and holdings were and who had highest-level access was an invaluable resource, especially once rail service resumed and repairs on highways progressed. From the steady stream of texts that Noct sent, it was evident that he took quiet pleasure in the successes and victories of his people (fellow citizens, if not subjects any more). He liked visiting towns and outposts on official business and being shown all their modern amenities. Medical clinics, schools, wells and aqueducts, sock-knitting factories and carrot farms. Noct never allowed anyone to kneel to him or refer to him as the former king (though Ignis was sure they still did so, just out of his hearing). _Let them forget_ , he wrote. _The king died. I'm just a guy who ended up with fifteen kilos of Caem carrots, isn't your birthday coming up soon?_

Ignis was struck dumb by that offhand comment, paralyzed by his inability to come up with a response. Eventually Noct's distress at his silence grew to the point where he threatened to send Gladio to track Ignis down. Ignis hated having his weaknesses spotlit, and replied with a quick and less-than-gracious _Not necessary, Your Majesty_ , after which updates from Noct ceased, and nothing further was said about either carrots or birthdays.

But Ignis was busy himself, torn between requests to aid the Lestallum council with various diplomatic endeavors and working with Talcott to make sure none of the Imperial military surplus fell into the wrong hands. It was a decent balance between mental and physical exertion, which ought to have been deeply satisfying, but Ignis found his temper fraying instead. He thought the root of his frustration was that he wasn't moving on. Part of him yearned to break with the past and do something new, but he didn't know _what_ , exactly.

To his eternal (but unfortunately always belated) regret, he kept snapping at the people closest to him.

Gladio was of the firm opinion that Ignis was sexually frustrated, and kept extending invitations every time Ignis passed through Lestallum. But after a few months of rebuffing Gladio every time he suggested Ignis should join him and Prompto again – _get rid of some of that stress_ , he said, as if that was all it was, and all it would take – the offers stopped coming. Ignis was regretful, because they'd been so kind to him; had taken such good care of him during the long dark years. He missed being touched and he missed intimacy, though he knew he could certainly learn to live without them again. He told himself it was good to be more independent.

He was aware Gladio thought he was being stupid. After all, Ignis wasn't seeing anyone or planning to, nor was he literally married to his work. But he was shocked that Prompto was the one who took him to task, cornering Ignis in a rented caravan outside Meldacio when their paths crossed one day.

"You're perceptive, so I figure you know," Prompto said, picking objects up from Ignis' table and then setting them down distractingly, "but you used to have this weird Crow's Nest burger mode you'd go into sometimes – hearty and full of cheese. We'd be on the road at ass'o'clock and you'd be all _ah, what beautiful weather_ like you could jolly us into a good mood. Fake like the way I fake being cool right before I literally fall on my ass. Except... it also isn't?" He put something down with a bump, and crossed to lean against the wall next to the door, all restless energy. "Noct says you're buttoned up and that's just who you are, but we all know you've got a good heart somewhere in there. But I worry that under all those buttons you're bleeding out and trying to keep us from noticing even though you're just as tired of hearty-jollying along."

"The world ended," Ignis started automatically, mouth responding before he considered just how Prompto would take that. He grimaced, folding his arms over his chest, watching for any shift in the slight movement of lesser dark that he assumed was Prompto. "I doubt you'd find my heart different from anyone else's. There's no point in dwelling on anger or frustration and so on. Quite often that heartiness you dislike so keenly is intended for myself, not others. I am the one in need of the reminder that good weather and being alive to enjoy it is a blessing."

"You're not enjoying it, though," Prompto said. "Back in Hammerhead, after we got out of the city alive, you were walking on air. Practically giddy, for you. And now..."

Ignis used one hand to gesture comprehensively, encompassing the work to be done outside, all the tasks _someone_ had to deal with, and the uncomfortably cramped living conditions that one put up with while tackling those problems. "That world ended, too," he said pointedly.

"We just want to know that you're happy," Prompto said with a sigh.

"If I slept with you, would you let the subject drop?"

The words hung there in the air, and Ignis had the absurd mental image of Prompto walking around them, arms clasped behind his back, like he was examining a particularly dreadful statue in a gallery. After the ominous pause had grown properly excruciating, Prompto said, "Wow... that's possibly the most insulting thing you've ever said to me." He paused. "Yeah, I got nothing. Call me if you need me. Or not."

The knowledge that he'd lashed out and hurt _Prompto_ , of all people, had Ignis on his feet with shame and self-loathing. "Please don't go. Or," and he reached for his cane, keeping his face toward Prompto, hoping his contrition showed, "can we walk? Outside?"

He had Prompto's good heart (far better than his own) to thank for not telling him to fuck off – well deserved though it would have been – and Ignis marshaled his thoughts as Prompto followed him down the steps and then along the road, away from the bustle of activity around the shops that had sprung up after the dawn.

He started by apologizing: for what he'd said, for closing himself off, for being in a bad temper, for having no framework for how to accept kindness or care.

"Yeah, well," Prompto said. He was listening, but Ignis did not make the mistake of assuming that meant he was forgiving. "You've always been weird, but this is like, off-the-scale."

"Noct," Ignis began, and groped for a continuation. The bare bones were easy: "I knew Noct had to die. I had _no idea_ he – or any of us – might live. I seem to deal very poorly with being once more in the dark."

"You knew." Prompto's voice was flat with surprise and accusation. "You _knew_?"

"Yes." Ignis crossed his arms. He knew he looked defensive, but he needed that small comfort.

Prompto sucked in a lungful of air and then blew it all out again, like a soundtrack to his frustration.

How did he put words to the nightmares that had woken him nightly for a decade? Poorly, he supposed, was better than not at all. "I was shown the future in Altissia. It... I asked Noct to give up, but he insisted on going forward, and I knew then... nothing I could do would effect change. Rail against it I might – for ten years I did little else – but everything still unfolded as foretold. But then..."

"We like Noct, though." Prompto was talking to him as if he was a toddler having a tantrum. He was scuffing his boots in the loose dirt as he walked, and Ignis had to clench his hands to stop himself from asking him to stop. It was no business of his if good leather got scratched. "Not-dead is a _good_ thing."

Ignis knew he had to reply, but the words dried up. He dug his fingers into his arms instead.

" _You_ like Noct," Prompto said abruptly, stopping close enough that he was doubtless scrutinizing Ignis' face. "That's what this is about?" And then, "Wait, back up. You told Noct to quit saving the world?"

"When I indulge in selfishness, I do so spectacularly. I'd have let everything die to keep him safe. I fully deserved his reprimand."

"Mm-hm." Prompto reached out and pried one of Ignis' hands loose, chafing it between his own. "But telling Noct you love him is, what, a bridge too far?" Too late, Ignis realized Prompto had his left hand, with the tell-tale scar seared into his skin, a ring around his finger. "No, wait, of course it is."

"Lady Lunafreya tells me what she most enjoys now is the freedom to discover herself. I will not deny Noct the same."

"Well." Prompto raised Ignis' hand to his cheek and held it there. "I think you're being a dick. But at the same time, you're kind of right." He leaned into the touch, and Ignis pictured him with his eyes closed. Only the roughness of terrible facial hair reminded him that Prompto looked older than the twenty-year-old Ignis had last seen. "You can't rely on Noct to fill up all the places _you're_ empty, either." He ran his thumb along the side of Ignis' hand. "Gladio went through the same thing, you know. Years ago. How to be a Shield with no king."

"He's been fortunate to have you," Ignis said. The words were impulsive, but he felt Prompto smile, and some of the sick guilt coiling in his stomach eased.

"Everyone's lucky to have me," Prompto returned lightly. "So you're not going to stab me for calling you names?"

Ignis summoned up as much as feigned indignation as he could. "When have I ever stabbed you, or anyone?"

Prompto laughed and let go of Ignis for a brief disorienting moment, before returning to sling an arm around his waist. He bumped his hip into Ignis' to get him walking, and started steering him out toward the rocky field that lay beyond the chain-link fence. "Hey. My baby's over here, you want to see?"

Ignis looked up instinctively.

"Nah, I parked her dirtside. Don't want to freak people out too much. She's got a sweet paint job now – the council doesn't want their airships getting shot down accidentally – or, like, on purpose, you know – so they sold off advertising space. I've got Kenny Crow as big as a house on one side. Kids love it, adults flee in terror." Ignis felt the air cool as he was guided into shadow, and the faint echo of their footsteps indicated they were close. "Ramp's here," Prompto said. He let his heels strike metal. "We brought a ton of stuff, you should make sure you get your share. Oh, and the mail."

"Any more settlers?" Ignis asked. Based on the sounds around them, the airship was just a big empty box at the moment, likely awaiting goods that would arrive on the afternoon train. There was a faint animal smell, which made Ignis smile. "Or chocobos?"

Prompto laughed. "The nose always knows, huh. We've been setting up rental stations like in the old days. You haven't heard indignant until you've stuffed twenty birds into an airship." He grabbed Ignis' hand and pulled him further inside. "Here, look at what Iris made. Awesome, right?"

Ignis' fingers were wrapped around something soft, dangling from cords in front of the windshield. "You put fuzzy dice on a stolen Imperial airship."

Prompto cackled with glee and swatted Ignis on the hip. "I know! And they're, like, pastel. They make me smile like nobody's business."

A year ago, Ignis might have risked reaching out to run his finger along Prompto's lips and see that smile for himself. He held back now, satisfying himself with the soft plush of the dice, the felt numbers easy for even him to read. He had regrets, and he let them come to a head for a moment and then, very deliberately, put them away. He let his thoughts turn to happiness and purpose, and he leaned back against the pilot's chair and asked all the questions he should have been asking, letting time spiral away as he caught up with Prompto.

After Prompto left, Ignis made himself get in touch with Noct. He didn't know if he should apologize or simply demonstrate his contrition through better behavior. Texting was a good medium for walking that fine line of indecision, though. He could set a conversation down when he grew irritated, and go make himself burn it off with exercise or training. Noct never called him out on his evasive tactics; Ignis suspected Noct did the same thing, only with fishing poles instead of knives as his preferred distraction.

Ignis finished up his work in Meldacio and hitched a ride back to Lestallum, where the endless meetings over water rights had spiraled out into discussions about sewage treatment and dams. He agreed with the general idea that those up-river had a responsibility to not flush all their problems downriver, but the hammering out of details and minutiae was excruciating. He enjoyed the challenges of diplomacy intellectually, but some of the people involved annoyed him on a deep, fundamental level.

He ended up asking-slash-begging Talcott if there wasn't anything that – theoretically – required his urgent presence elsewhere, and two days later he was rattling out of the city in the back of a truck. To his credit, Talcott didn't gloat; the mission was legitimate, after all. One of the new farming villages west of the Disc of Cauthess had some ominous caverns nearby, and was overlooked by decaying Imperial guard posts. As hunters, their duty was to ensure the safety of the citizenry.

Ignis accepted his assignments readily and, always keen to polish his rusty skills, enjoyed the challenge of out-thinking the Niflheim military. Their camp was set up outside the village, and though it was unnerving not having the safety of a haven to retreat to, there was pleasure in the fresh air and sleeping out under the stars. While they were lost to him now, Talcott assured him that they shone just as brightly as always, and that off in the distance the waxing moon was a faint sliver of light. Ignis was pleased to know this; he had no reason to keep track of the moon, but he had once. It gave him a pleasant pang of nostalgia, and he sent Noct pictures of the stars and the moon that he was sure turned out terribly and probably included several fingers. But Noct sent him pictures in return, mostly of fish, which he described in loving detail: weights down to the gram and certainly-not-exaggerated lengths.

 _Find anything good?_ Noct asked. _I picked up some cool rocks the other day. You'd like them._

Ignis could not recall when he'd ever given Noct the impression that he was interested in the odd bits-and-bobs that he was constantly pocketing, but he wrote back that he was sure they were fascinating. He told Noct about the fun they'd had dismantling booby-traps in the caverns, which turned out to be protecting nothing more than stockpiles of tin cans, long since rusted through. Still, he enjoyed making a contribution to the recovery effort, and indulging the opportunity to show off, of course. By the time they decamped, he vowed that the younger members of the team (chosen apparently for brawn and not brains) would have stopped asking Talcott why there was an old blind guy on his team.

The _old_ stung more than the _blind_ , to Ignis' consternation.

 _I am not saying kids these days because – again – I am still in the prime of life_, he sent. _But did no one ever teach them about basic safety around explosives?_

Noct informed him that he'd laughed out loud, and Ignis found himself grinning down at his phone.

 _You'll straighten them out,_ Noct sent a minute later, after (Ignis was informed) he'd finished mopping the beer he'd been drinking off his shirt. _I have faith in you._

Ignis sent him a copy of the picture the kids had been caught taking, one of them posing with a stick of dynamite held high. (Across the camp, he could still hear Talcott yelling himself hoarse, and Ignis felt no desire to defuse the situation.)

 _SHIT_ , Noct sent back.

Even a few weeks ago, Ignis would probably have responded telling him not to swear, but he hadn't been Noct's minder for long enough that he assumed no reminder was called for. Instead, he stole one of Prompto's favorite phrases: _IKR?_

He felt warm success when Noct texted back, _I am trying to DRINK here._

He was still riding that wave of released tension and goodwill when Noct asked, a few days later, if he wouldn't mind cutting his _fun times in caves_ short and heading down south.

 _There's a thing being planned in Galdin Quay,_ he said. _I know 'things' aren't your thing, but I haven't been back since I woke up. Not that I'm superstitious. But the Accordians will be there, and maybe Luna, if she can hop a boat. Rumor has it there's hot running water, and it's the last chance to stay in the hotel before it's demolished._

Ignis had no desire to stay there ever again, but he would give his eyeteeth for a long hot shower. _Define 'thing'._

Noct sent him three fifty-page documents about setting up some kind of memorial park, a combination tourist trap and pilgrimage site run by an NGO which supported sustainable development and orphans. Or so Noct said. He added a short, sheepish note stating that he'd be willing to provide a more coherent summary on the drive down. _At least as far as I understand it myself. No statues, that's my position. Is this going to turn into a diplomatic fiasco? I should have asked first. But they had really adorable pictures of kids._

 _You're forgiven,_ Ignis sent back absently, and began the tedious work of reading through everything. He'd have a dozen calls to make in the morning and would need to apologize to Talcott, but he found himself looking forward to the change of pace. Warm sun, the gentle waves lapping the shore, fresh fish on the grill – what better way to spend a week?


	3. Chapter 3

Noct had the good sense not to drive down himself. Ignis wasn't sure that he'd been behind the wheel since the sun rose; at first because of his injuries, but after that... Perhaps he missed the Regalia; perhaps he was loathe to drive on an expired license. Perhaps he merely enjoyed sitting in the backseat and aggravating Ignis, this time with two hunters from Leide in the front.

Ignis had a nodding acquaintance with them both; he asked Titus about his family and Leila about her motorcycle, and they in turn pressed him for details about what Talcott was having to put up with.

"Kind of figures," Leila said philosophically. She was a cautious driver, but given the potholes and ripped-out chunks of asphalt along this stretch of road, Ignis appreciated the care. Especially since her vehicle's suspension was lacking. "You spend your whole life in the darkness, knowing you're going to either starve or get daemon-chomped. Live through that and of course you're going to think you're invulnerable."

"They're kids," Titus countered. "I was a dumb kid. Who here wasn't?" And then he recalled who he was talking to. "I take that back."

"Nah," Noct said, slow and lazy. Ignis could see clear as day the smile that went with that tone. "I was dumb. I drove Specs up the wall."

"Your eyes doing any better now the sun's out?" Leila asked, changing the subject with the curiosity people had when they were unfamiliar with Ignis' limitations. He heard Noct's breath catch, like he was ready to take offense on Ignis' behalf, but that was ridiculous. It was an honest question, and Ignis replied in that spirit. Leila clicked her tongue. "That sucks."

"Hardly a new limitation," Ignis pointed out.

"Still." He heard her shift in her seat, roll down the window, tap her fingernails on the gearshift. "You mind if I put the radio on?"

Ignis did not, and with a click the car was filled with music. Even the apocalypse couldn't stop the progress of pop culture, and he got to laugh at Noct's dismay with the inane lyrics and unpleasant use of synthesizers, pointing out that the music they'd grown up with was now considered oldies.

Noct had to make a token protest, and Titus told him it was an unwinnable battle. No one over thirty could claim to be cool, and there was no point in trying.

"Between you and my friends, it's amazing I have any self-esteem left." Noct jabbed Ignis in the arm. "I'm still two years younger and sprier than you," he said. "Not even the gods can take that away from me."

"Gloating doesn't become you," Ignis lied. "I thought we were going to prepare for the quote-unquote _thing_?"

The jabbing turned into a desperate clutch. "Please, please don't make me have to study the whole ride."

Ignis wasn't feeling merciful. He took out his phone and queued up his notes. "Do it for the orphans, Noct," he said primly, and with a groan Noct took the bait.

None of them saw the danger until it was too late.

After the radio signal dropped out, Leila and Titus – bored by the discussion of politics, religion, and Galdin's fishing opportunities – started a lively argument over the upcoming chocobo races. Noct, slumped at Ignis' side, made noises at well-timed intervals during Ignis' explanation which undoubtedly meant he wasn't listening at all; Ignis was mentally plotting elaborate revenge schemes when suddenly Leila snapped, "Caltrops on the road."

Ignis had no time to brace himself. He was thrown hard against Noct as she whipped the car into a U-turn, tires shrieking and shredding as they skidded. Ignis was familiar with the general area, and he thought _the road's too narrow_ in the same instant as the front of the car slammed into the guardrail. He imagined sparks flying in accompaniment to the horrendous noise and immediately sniffed the air for the threat of a fuel leak.

Through the shattered windows, Ignis heard the all-too-familiar whine of servos and the heavy thuds of armored footfalls growing near.

"That's two Magitek armors there," Titus said. "Get out, head uphill to the ruins." _Yes._ Ignis could almost picture the route. Something alarming must have happened then, because Titus' voice grew urgent. " _Run_."

They left the car on the count of three, going out the windows on the passenger side and over the railing, crouching as they scrambled for tree cover. Ignis ran on Noct's heels, both for guidance over unseen terrain and to keep his body as a shield between their attackers and Noct, while Leila and Titus took up covering positions behind rocks and trees. Ignis knew they were armed, but not whether they had enough firepower to take down anything that big. Their best hope would be that the Magitek armor was salvaged and had been jury-rigged with fuel tanks taken from construction machinery. Prompto had told him once that he'd heard of that being attempted, but the risks outweighed the armor's utility. Regular fuel ran out too fast, and the fuel tanks were vulnerable to any armor-piercing projectiles.

Ignis wished he had the time to explain this to Leila, but he assumed that at any rate the visual was worth a thousand words.

Noct veered to the side, with a terse warning about a rock, and Ignis... stumbled as he turned, as if he'd been shoved from behind by invisible hands. It was a peculiar sensation, his energy suddenly sapping and his thoughts turning syrupy slow. He forced himself to concentrate, to not falter, to get up and cover Noct as best he could.

He was shoved once again before they reached the shelter of the first ancient stone wall, and he wondered if there was some ancient defensive magic welling up in the land here. His whole body felt heavy, as if he was being dragged down into the ground; pulling his thoughts together took effort. He managed to ask Noct if he was well and was only partially relieved at the distracted affirmative. He didn't know if Noct was wearing his leg brace; probably not, as it was doubtless uncomfortable in the car. He hoped that wouldn't be a weakness their enemies could exploit.

"You don't have a gun, do you?" Noct asked, and Ignis shook his head, as slightly as he could. With the crystal and the ring gone and the gods slumbering, magic had returned to the world in fascinating ways, but he sorely missed the convenience of the armiger. Titus had mentioned there were shotguns in the back of the car – in case of predators – but they'd been in too much of a hurry to grab them. He heard the whine of servos bearing down on them, and unsheathed his daggers, forcing himself into mental and physical focus; Noct, he knew, had his sword at hand. Not one of the legendary ones, of course, but Gladio had declared it perfectly serviceable for wearing with his uniform.

Ignis passed on what Prompto said about the fuel-tank vulnerability, and after a moment Noct said, "Yeah, I see it."

And then the wall – standing since ancient times, and certainly Historical Register material, if such a thing had still existed – was crushed under great metal feet. Taking down Magitek armor had never been easy, and Ignis missed Gladio and Prompto in the fight sorely, but he and Noct worked well together. When the main guns were disabled, he caught Noct from a run and tossed him skyward, as high as he could manage, despite the way the movement made his back feel like it was being clawed open. The maneuver was a poor substitute for warping, perhaps, but moments later he heard and smelled fuel bubbling out from a rend in the tank.

Noct jumped from the armor shoulder down to the wall, and then to the ground, missing his footing but turning the stumble into a roll as Ignis moved to shield him.

"I got the pilot," Noct said, succinct and... regretful. Ignis had never wanted Noct to have to kill other people. It ought to have been his responsibility, his hands that were dirtied. Not Noct, not _ever_.

He didn't have time to say this, as the forest rocked with the concussion of a massive explosion just downhill. Ignis heard Leila and Titus whoop, and then Noct grabbed his wrist and dragged him away from their own incapacitated armor, which creaked as it swayed, unbalanced, and then tumbled down, crushing more irreplaceable architectural ruins.

"It's almost dark," Ignis said, fighting to get his breath back. He was fairly confident he was right; what sight he had was darkening, spotty with the exertion. He'd had terrible vertigo when he'd first lost his vision, and felt the return of it now, with typical terrible timing. "We should find a defensible position from which to call for help. We don't know how many more of them there are."

Noct grunted in reply, neither affirmation nor negation, and called quietly to let the others know where they were. Ignis imagined he also waved, and listened to their approach. When they were in earshot, Noct repeated Ignis' plan, and Ignis tried not to feel stung when their opinions were solicited. Of course they doubtless had more recent information about the area, having prepared for the drive and its potential dangers. He had, after all, only been a passenger, under their protection.

As the discussion progressed, he had the curious sensation of receding, like a tide, and with that came the horrific realization that while he was hearing voices the words had lost meaning, somehow. He could not afford to lose another sense: he needed his wits, and to be useful; he needed Noct. He raised his hand to rub at his ear, taking comfort in irritation and swallowing down panic along with the bile he could taste in the back of his throat. He was so cold that the brush of his own icy fingers made him flinch.

It occurred to him, belatedly, that he might be dying, for some reason. He hated the idea, and decided he simply would not. Death might have its hooks in him, but he'd fight until he snapped the line pulling him inexorably toward the far shore.

His mental resolve, however, was at odds with his body. He blinked, and a moment later he was sitting. The jolt from falling shot up through his bones like an electric current, so all-consuming that he had no thought for anything except that agony. When the tide of it withdrew enough that he was aware of the world outside his own skin, he first noticed that the conversation was now circling around him like a ravenous bird of prey. Hands were on him, rough and urgent, and he was so hypersensitized that he twisted, trying to pull back and away. His jacket and sweat-soaked shirt were stripped off, and that tidal wave of pain dragged him under again, stayed only when someone pressed his clothes _hard_ up against his back.

"Come on," Noct said; "Come _on_ ", and Leila demanded to know what the fuck had happened.

"Shot?" Noct's hands were still pressing hard, as if he intended to push Ignis' shirt through his back, but he must have made some kind of signal because someone else moved in to help. "Can you – ?"

And then Noct was gone and Ignis was in a stranger's hands, which he didn't like at all. He tried to raise up, and listed to the side instead, which made Noct swear. Terrible language, which Ignis would take him to task for, just as soon as he got his breath back. He was torn as if the world was being unmade again, and he was selfish; he wanted it to _stop_ , he wanted to breathe, but this time the Ring had set his lungs on fire and he needed to get past Ifrit, to Noct, to save him.

"I got duct tape," Leila said. Noct grabbled hold of him again, and even that rough grip was a relief, an anchor against the sucking darkness. There was a rip and the sharp scent of adhesive, and then a new and unpleasant pressure against his back, like something terrible was being forced into him. Still, the fiery iron bands that had been crushing his chest loosened, and Ignis panted at the reprieve. "Good to have on hand."

"You guys doing okay?" Noct asked, and her silence likely indicated she'd gestured in reply. Perhaps she was wounded. Ignis opened his eyes – eye – to see, and then realized how futile that was.

"There's no reception up here," Titus said. "We'll have to backtrack, about three kilos down to the billboard."

Leila coughed, and Ignis heard joints crackling. "It's an easy enough run, but I don't know if there are more bandits or what the fuck ever up here." The sound of nimble hands loading ammo. "You keep this, but just stay hunkered down."

Ignis tried to nod; he approved of that plan. Incapacitated he might be, but he still needed to protect Noct. He wasn't that bad of a shot, provided none of his allies were in proximity to his target. Unfortunately, the hand he tried to take the gun with wasn't co-operating, and somehow Noct ended up holding it instead.

Still, he managed to say, "Thank you," and after a false start or two began the careful process of getting to his feet. To his shame, he needed to be supported by all the others, and his concentration was so focused on staying upright that he barely managed to drag his feet. The conversation around him turned to people they knew: Gladio and Prompto, good, he trusted them to relieve him of his duty; Talcott, for some reason; Luna, which made him immediately fear that they'd encountered the starscrouge, out here in the wild ancient ruins. _Not Noct,_ he thought with every clumsy step. _Not Noct, not him, not Noct._

Their destination was only a few meters away, where the ruined wall formed a corner. Noct sat with his back to the stone and Ignis was lowered to sit between his legs, head dropping back to rest on Noct's shoulder, angled up like he was stargazing. Noct's left arm held Ignis' jacket in place over his back; his right kept the gun at the ready. Just in case. 

Ignis – through no fault of his own, Noct said, each time he realized and apologized – slipped in and out of awareness. Noct kept talking anyway, doggedly, and reminded him that it was rude not to reply.

At some later point, Ignis realized to his horror that an airship had found their location, the distinctive hum of the Magitek engines having blended so well with his throbbing headache that he'd not even noticed its approach.

"Imperials above us," he hissed to Noct, who grabbed him and kept him from gaining his feet.

"It's just Prompto," Noct said, deliberately patient.

Ignis couldn't parse that. Prompto would never have become an MT. He _trusted_ Prompto, and he told Noct that, indignant on their friend's behalf.

"Thanks," Prompto said. He sounded somewhat weirded out, and Ignis hoped his feelings weren't hurt by Noct's thoughtlessness.

And then Ignis frowned. Had he confused his missions? He'd have sworn that he'd been... hunting, perhaps. He held out a hand, reaching for Prompto, just to see that he truly was there. Perhaps his mind was playing tricks on him. The effort of moving brought back the maelstrom of dizziness, skewing his proprioception. He wasn't sure he _had_ raised his hand, and he had no idea where his legs were.

"Don't strain yourself," Prompto said, but he crouched down and took Ignis' hand. He was feverishly hot. "You holding up?"

That was an odd question, except – oh, his memory was slipping. "We were attacked. Magitek."

"Iris and Gladio are on it," Prompto said. "Look, the EMTs want you now. Think of this as just another exciting adventure, okay?"

Ignis was... tired of adventures. He was exhausted, his energy bleeding out of him. _Fuel leak_ , he remembered, and wondered if that was what he was being measured for as strange hands – not Prompto's; where had he gone? – took hold of him, manipulated him, hurt him.

He didn't want to move away from the corner where he was safe with Noct; he was certain he'd be ill from vertigo. But Prompto and Noct insisted he put up with the indignity of being lifted and strapped down and hoisted through the air, while the world swung around him like a chandelier shaken an earthquake. He tried to curl in on himself, but the straps were in the way. In his misery, he had no time to give warning. His dry mouth flooded with saliva, and then he was wracked with helpless uncontrollable retching. Something inside him that had been fraying snapped loose with a series of sharp tearing pains, then a wave of debilitating agony, radiating from his chest to his extremities. He couldn't get his breath, and he fought his bonds like a trapped animal, until once again the ice and fire of the gods consumed him, and he knew nothing more.

*

He woke in a darkened room, his body heavy and unresponsive. He recognized the thick, unpleasant blanketing of pain by drugs, but not the sickening weight on his chest accompanying each breath. His hands refused to move; his heart, starting to hammer now as panic settled in, sounded like a drum in the darkness. And then the reaching tentacles of drugged relief caught him again and pulled him back under, to the unthinking empty place.

*

The next memory that stuck with him was of voices in the room. It was still dark, but the soft conversation distracted him from whatever was wrong with his breathing, and indeed, with his body. He couldn't follow the words, but he knew the speakers and felt safe.

Someone said his name, and then a hand cupped the side of his face, thumb running under his eye in a fond, possessive gesture that filled him with a terrible thirst to be touched. _Oh_ , how he needed.

"Does he look awake to you?" the voice asked, and Ignis blinked, trying to see who the speaker was.

Another hand, this one pushing his hair back. Good; he despised the feeling of hair in his face. "Hey, Iggy." Ignis tried to lift his own hand; the effort it took was baffling. "Go back to sleep, okay? You'll feel better in the morning."

Ah. Night-time. He understood that, and it explained the darkness neatly. He let himself drift away, taking comfort from the interaction.

*

He understood a bit more the next time he woke.

He remembered that he was blind, and he knew he was in a hospital. The pain accompanying each breath and the difficulty of breathing were alarming. His hands were strapped down. He knew, dully, that meant he'd been thrashing; he was embarrassed but felt a sort of sympathy for his injured, thrashing, out-of-his-skull self.

At least he'd kept Noct safe, he thought, and on the heels of that certainty came doubt. _Had_ he?

His reaction to that insidious thought was uncontrollable. Tears welled up and spilled over, and he licked his dry lips, needing to ask, even though he wasn't sure his voice would work. His throat felt scraped raw, and every swallow felt like it was killing him.

Or not, he supposed, because here he was, still alive, and not dead weight like Noct had been when he'd died. Surely that should be heartening.

"Hey, hey, Iggy – Ignis." Soft cloth swiped the sides of his face, catching the tears before they flooded his ears. "You hurting? There's medicine."

Noct's voice was better than any curative.

"Noct," Ignis attempted. It sounded like formless, breathless babble to him.

But Noct's reply was pleased and relieved: "Thank _fuck_." He paused, and Ignis rolled his right eye in lieu of delivering the lecture about bad language that Noct deserved. "I'm going to sit down here and hold your hand for a while," he went on, acting appropriately chided. He gave Ignis another pass with the towel, and then crossed the room, returning to set down a chair that Ignis pictured from its clunk as a schoolroom one: heavy, wooden, and uncomfortable, but built to survive both junior high and the apocalypse.

He was sleepy from the exertion of being awake and aware (and to be honest, from the effort it took to breathe) but he refused to waste even a second of time. Noct untied his wrist and folded their hands together, Ignis' clasped between his own, and Ignis _basked_.

Being alive was worth it if it meant he could have this.

"I hit the nurse call," Noct said. "Sorry, but they wanted to know if you woke up."

 _If_ , Ignis thought. That sounded ominous. He tried to squeeze Noct's hand to reassure him, and he must have succeeded because Noct squeeze back.

"I don't know what to say," Noct admitted. "I feel all talked out – you remember any of what I said?"

Ignis frowned. "No." That brought the sadness welling up again. He wanted...

"Whoops." Noct dabbed away the fresh tears. "This is probably the mood-swing part of coming off the strong drugs, by the way. Gladio said you'd be pissed off and hate it, but... I don't mind? I mean. _I'm_ feeling pretty emotional, here, so good job not making me feel alone in that."

"What _happened_?" Ignis asked. Two words might be his limit – for now – but he was glad they came out comprehensible.

"Hoo boy." Noct took a moment to compose his answer, which meant it was going to be edited, which meant the full truth would be even worse.

But Noct was saved by the arrival of the nurse, who had questions, tests to perform and measurements to take. Ignis learned fascinating-slash-horrifying new things about the extent of his debilitation. For example, he had a tube coming out of his chest, and additionally he'd been catheterized and Noct had been keeping an eye on his urine output, apparently just so he could feel useful while sitting around.

Ignis fell back asleep in self-defense against that abject humiliation, before the nurse was even done with him.

*

Ignis was getting tired of his life consisting solely of brief periods of surfacing from darkness. He blinked and breathed carefully, listening. He'd been woken by someone entering the room and interrupting the comforting hum of whatever Noct and Gladio had been talking about.

"Igster," Prompto called – he was always good about greetings – and then, "No, wait, he's awake and I'm finally here for it. I should take a picture."

 _Don't you dare_ was working its way to the tip of Ignis' tongue when Gladio beat him to it: "Only if you want to be murdered once he's mobile." Gladio must have shifted, because his chair creaked like it was in pain. _Apocalypse Gladio_ , Ignis thought, and smiled.

"It's good to see you, too," Prompto said, sounding delighted. He bent down and put his hands on Ignis' shoulders, leaning in until their cheeks brushed. "Big hugs!"

"Careful," Noct warned. 

Ignis felt a stab of frustration. He was hardly so fragile Prompto would shatter him with such a careful hug. Fueled by that irritation, he did his best to hug back. His left arm was still tied down, but he got his right up and encountered Prompto's stomach – not so good – but with a bit more effort set his palm on his lower back. _Ha._

" _Damn_ it," Noct said. "Now _I_ want a – " His voice cut off abruptly, interrupted by laughter and the sounds of a futile struggle. "I'm hugged enough now, put me down."

Prompto pulled back, but caught Ignis' hand and held onto it like a lifeline. "They are so adorable," he confided in an amused stage whisper. "Noct's kicking his little feet, helpless to stop," he dropped his voice like a film-trailer narrator, " _the hug_." He shifted, and a shutter clicked three times in series.

"I hate you," Noct said, still laughing. "You should rescue me."

Prompto snorted. "I'm not cutting in on Ignis' territory, are you nuts?" The sounds of rough-housing stopped; Noct's boots hit the ground. "Sorry, I didn't – sorry."

"How about no one needs rescuing ever again?" Gladio asked. "I'm getting pretty sick of my best friends dying."

"More happiness," Prompto agreed. "So get your ass over here and spread some joy Iggy's way."

Ignis, in some alarm, tried to argue that he was fine with his joyless yet unmolested existence, but Gladio gave incredible hugs, which once again set off his sappy over-sentimentality.

"Noct next," Ignis demanded childishly, and Gladio and Prompto shoved Noct into his arms (arm; he really needed to figure out how to get his left free). Noct's hair smelled sun-warmed, and Ignis fancied that he felt Noct's heart beat in time next to his.

He'd managed to get his arm all the way around Noct, and found himself torn. He was breathless even from this amount of exertion, but his stubborn will demanded that he not let go. He was resolved not to give in to weakness. He was determined... at least until his stomach growled loud and long.

Noct laughed and went to go buy lunch, which turned out to be a supremely unsatisfactory soup-ish substance. Ignis insisted on feeding himself but needed Prompto to guide his hand to his mouth.

Worrying.

After the meal, he asked the question that was weighing on his mind. "What's wrong with me?"

Gladio shifted in his chair, the legs creaking. "You going to remember if we tell you again?"

Ignis tried to summon the haughtiest glare he could muster. "As if I have any control over that."

"Go ahead and risk it," Prompto said, playing peacemaker.

"This Magitek armor was shooting at us," Noct said. The words were tinged with annoyance, but perhaps that was concern? "It filled your back with shrapnel. Kind of a bloodbath. You remember Leila and Titus?" Ignis... was fairly sure he did. "They got help, saved your ass. Could have been... really bad, but you're mostly okay. Your lung collapsed, but we got you to the hospital before... you know."

"You got some new scars," Gladio added. "For your collection."

Ignis ignored him pointedly. Gladio was living in a glass house, where scars were concerned. "I want to go home."

Noct laughed, and put one hand on either side of Ignis' neck, like a parent telling a child to brace up. "Trust me, the hospital doesn't want to keep you, Specs. There's a whole plan for springing you, and I'm told you just need to follow it to the letter. No overdoing things or ignoring stuff."

Ignis didn't like the sound of that.

"Look at your _face_ ," Prompto crowed. "He looks like he ate Gladio's cooking." He slapped Noct's shoulder; Ignis could feel the vibration through Noct's hands. "Gonna have your hands full, buddy."

"I like it that way," Noct said. "Hand me the clipboard." A page flipped, back and forward. "And," he dragged the word out, half sympathetic and half gleeful, "looks like it's naptime."

"Thank fuck," Gladio said. "I been up since four. Toss me a pillow and I'll be out like a light."

Ignis disliked being humored or babied, but he _was_ tired and Gladio, he knew, was kind at heart with good intentions. He didn't know where a spare pillow might be, but then Prompto handed him one. Ignis threw it as hard as he could – aiming for the creaky chair – and was rewarded with a soft _thwump_ and a snort of laughter.

"Right in the knee," Prompto reported. "Good one, Igster." He gave Ignis an awkward fistbump. "Gotta go, Malboro."

"Garu-later," Ignis said on autopilot, and then embarrassed himself further by yawning so hard his dry lower lip split and his chest _hurt_ like he'd been stabbed all over again, necessitating slow and careful breathing to survive without being devoured by the pain.

Noct rubbed his back until the worst pain drained away and then put some kind of balm on his lip, as if those were things he always did; and then he dragged Prompto out, turning off the lights (or so he said). Ignis heard Gladio settle on the floor and almost immediately start snoring. Boredom set in after a minute or two, but just as Ignis was gearing up to do something about it, he – predictably – nodded off himself.

*

Prompto turned out to be Ignis' best ally in recovery. Ignis had assumed he would be: after all, he'd been at his side constantly after Altissia. And while Ignis knew Noct wanted to be helpful, he selfishly didn't want him witnessing the daily humiliations of his weakness any more than was necessary.

"Not going to let Noct see you sweat, are you?" Prompto accused, though he sounded like he thought this was hysterically funny. "You're a big show-off."

Ignis glared to the side. Aiming his ire was easy when it was Prompto's arm he was leaning heavily on. "That is hardly _news_." And then, because although he was prideful walking was harder than he'd anticipated, "How much further?"

"Just to the end of the corridor." Ignis bit his tongue and let irritation propel him another two steps. "Three meters. There's a chair there, you can rest up after you've done with your business, and then you get to walk all the way back."

"Delightful." Ignis could remember as clearly as if it'd been yesterday running through wide grassy fields and woods ahead of Noct, the sun brilliant overhead. After hours cramped in the car, the exercise had been welcome, an excuse to give free rein to the perfectly-maintained machine of his body. And now he was barely able to stagger to the toilet on his own.

"You're getting that murderous look again," Prompto said. "Come on, we're almost _chair_. You want me to talk for a while?"

"What time is it?" Ignis asked, and then negated the question with his free hand. "Is the sun up? Can we go outside?"

"I see someone put on their impatient pants this morning," Prompto said, half answer and half warning. "The doctors literally want to get rid of you ASAP, but you are also literally still a fucking mess. I mean – not to be rude – but have you seen your back? It's like a whole troop of Titan Scouts were trying to earn their sewing badges."

"I thought," and Ignis had to stop to lean on Prompto for a moment to concentrate, because he apparently needed to relearn how to talk and walk at the same time. Prompto braced himself easily to take his weight, and used his free hand to pet him like he was a cat demanding attention. To Ignis' irritation, he did find it soothing, making it easier to catch his breath after a few moments. "They ran out of supplies. Years ago."

"It's not like this is – " Prompto hummed the opening to a TV theme song Ignis had hoped he'd never hear again – " _Insomnia General_ , where the doctors are real and so's that guy who stuck a pen up his dick. And like, I should know, because we've been going back." Ignis heard him swallow. "To Insomnia, I mean. Filling airships up with machines that go _bloop_ and boxes of bandages and medicines that they just don't make like that anymore."

"Ten years," Ignis reminded him. He was certain most of those products would be past their shelf lives. And then, because he knew _he_ never wanted to enter Insomnia again, "I'm sorry." Prompto made a questioning noise. "You having to go... there."

Prompto laughed; a bit wistful, but not, Ignis felt, entirely forced. He gave Ignis a nudge, and they started walking again. "No biggie. Remember that councilman who argued the best way to ally with Niflheim was through cooperative sharing? He hooked up with people down south who're trying to make stuff in former Imperial labs. So far their main success is bleach, but as you can _smell_ , Lestallum's importing as much as we can get our hands on." He paused, hand tightening on Ignis' arm. "We're here – you want me to come in with you?"

"Please don't."

Prompto laughed, and let him shuffle his way into the bathroom. Ignis told himself he was making progress, to be able to come this far almost on his own, without being pushed in a wheelchair. And it was far better than the catheter, which he'd been very glad to be detached from (but which in turn had been far less agonizing than the removal of the chest tube, a feeling not unlike being stabbed very slowly with a hot poker). He wondered how much of the hospital's limited resources he'd consumed with his injuries. Whether he'd been given special treatment because of who he was. He imagined that was likely.

He flushed and washed up when he was done, and then gave in to vanity and raked his hair back with his damp hands, willing it to stay where it belonged. There was a mirror along the wall behind the row of sinks and he imagined what he'd see there. Nothing impressive: his scarred face, naked as he'd left off his visor; a pair of someone's threadbare pajamas topped with Gladio's oversized cardigan. He'd been afraid to ask whether anything matched. Prompto had accused him of being flashy on more than one occasion, during the dark years, when Ignis had thought he was simply trying to maintain a smart appearance. The world might have ended, but that wasn't any reason to become slovenly.

His pride was taking a definite hit these days, he thought ruefully, as he made his way back out.

" _Chair_ you are," Prompto said, chipper, and rapped his knuckles against something wooden. "Stylin' hair achievement unlocked and everything." Ignis made his way over and Prompto stepped aside so he could sit down all by himself.

Ignis took as deep of a breath as he could manage, and then asked, with great trepidation, just how terrible a fashion crime he was committing, with his sleepwear out in broad daylight (perhaps).

Prompto laughed and said hell no, he wasn't going to be responsible for giving Ignis high blood pressure. But he accompanied these terrifying words with a shoulder rub that defused both tension and temper as swiftly as if he'd used magic, so Ignis just closed his eyes and told himself he just had to put up with the indignity a little longer.

*

Five more days, to be precise, even though he worked _very hard_ to heal ahead of schedule.


	4. Chapter 4

He was irked when he was given permission to leave the hospital but informed he'd have to return for check-ups every other day. He'd hoped to be able to get back to his work, and slide out of the spotlight of concern over his well-being. He'd also assumed he'd either get a room in a hotel or in a flat Gladio – or someone – would procure for him. He didn't feel _abandoned_ , precisely, with Gladio and Prompto returning to work now that crisis had been averted and he was able to get around under his own steam. But it rankled deeply that he wasn't joining them.

Someone had tried to assassinate Noct, and Ignis needed to be part of the investigation.

"Look," Noct said, failing to hide his exasperation when Ignis stated this for possibly the third time that day. "I know you're pissed off. But you stay _here_ or in Iris' apartment – she's at her partner's, the place is all yours, it's the closest and on the ground floor and everything. You're not going to be set loose on the world until we know you're one hundred percent, so. Deal with it."

"Fine," Ignis said shortly. He was well aware that he shouldn't let his temper best him, but... He grabbed the smaller cloth bag which Noct had informed him he could carry, and tried to ignore that Noct was shouldering the majority of his belongings. Considering that he'd arrived with just the clothes on his back and his weapons, the proliferation of things in his room had been a startling metamorphosis. He now had dishes, cutlery, and a set of mugs (borrowed from Gladio and Prompto); two changes of clothes to replace the bloodied ones he'd been cut out of; towels and blankets (likewise borrowed); bags of medicine; and his phone. Not to mention cards and trinkets from well-wishers; Noct was in the process of helping Ignis write his thank-yous.

He had a lot to be grateful for, he chided himself as they walked through the more-or-less familiar streets. The shops and stalls were open, but there were fewer people on the streets, and Noct seemed content to let Ignis navigate for himself at his own convalescent pace. The sun and warm air were refreshing; he was tempted to ask Noct to stop by the marketplace so he could stock up on ingredients that Iris' kitchen doubtless lacked. But he found his speed slowed the further they went, and he needed to pause two or three times on each staircase to catch his breath. It was very disconcerting, and Noct's lack of comment suggested that he was disturbed as well.

Ignis resolved to be done with illness and injury once and for all. It was nothing more than a string of humiliations that he had no need of.

Finally, when Ignis began to worry about what would happen when he reached the limit to his endurance, Noct caught his elbow and said, "In here," directing Ignis up two steps to an open corridor. This jogged his memory; Iris' apartment was the fourth down, if he recalled correctly; he felt vindicated to be correct, and not entirely useless.

The glow of success didn't survive long once they were inside, however. Ignis would never plead blindness as an excuse, but it was a _fact_ that he didn't know where the furniture was, or where soap was in the bathroom, or what storage was available where he might find clean sheets (he drew the line at asking Noct for help with things he should be able to do with ease himself). He found it enervating to have to explore the space, with his cane and hands, to even know what he was dealing with. Iris had likely cleaned, but the dresser-top and counters were cluttered with a litter of oddities, everything from throwing stars (in the kitchen) to what Ignis assumed was a sexy bra (in the bedroom), and part of him desperately wanted to _dust_.

He could hear Noct putting together something simple for lunch – sandwiches, perhaps – and tidying up as he went. Ignis told himself firmly that he would be gracious and not snippy with Noct. Noct didn't deserve to be the recipient of his considerable bad temper. After all, none of this was his fault.

Noct was bemused by being thanked, at first, and then accepted Ignis' gratitude with increasing amusement, to his further irritation.

"I know this sucks for you," Noct said, getting up to fetch something from the kitchen that he set down with a bump. "Have a seat. Soup," he explained, sitting and waiting for Ignis to join him before taking a thoughtful slurp from his own bowl. "But I've been thinking, and I probably owe you. You did all this stuff for me – cooked, made me blow my snotty nose, hell, didn't I barf on you once or twice?"

Ignis grimaced. "I don't care to recall that while eating."

"Sorry," Noct said, but Ignis could hear him grinning. "Point is, how come I never took care of you back then?"

Ignis sipped at the soup – vegetable, with a bit too much pepper – and considered his answer. Noct had never liked being reminded that Ignis was technically an employee, a servant of the Crown, despite the pride Ignis himself had taken in his ability to do his work surpassingly well. Nor would Noct take well to the reminder that he was royalty; retired, perhaps, but that didn't make him any less the son of his father.

Ignis settled on a simple, "I'm older." A nice, safe reason, and – for most – an immutable fact. "I needed to set a good example."

Noct laughed, and the sound was almost enough to dissipate Ignis' mood. It certainly made him smile, despite himself.

"You were a _terrible_ example," Noct corrected. "All _yes sir, no ma'am_ when people were watching, and as soon as they'd gone you'd sneak us out the window and down to the yard to climb trees."

"In retrospect, I should have been more environmentally conscious as a child," Ignis murmured, making a point of missing Noct's point entirely.

Noct kicked him under the table; lightly, a tease. When he'd been young, Ignis wouldn't have thought twice about returning the kick. In the beginning, before all the complications of duty and responsibility, they'd simply been friends. He missed that, suddenly and deeply.

"Have a sandwich," Noct said after a bit, when the silence between them needed to be broken. Ignis took the one that Noct claimed was ham – of some sort; the flavor of meat was overwhelmed by spices – and managed half of it before declaring his defeat.

"I'll clean up," Noct said. "You go lie down." He sounded as if he anticipated pushback, and Ignis was stung by embarrassment; was he really so stubborn, that even Noct had to brace himself in fear of a tantrum? Ignis acceded with a terse nod, pushing his chair back and standing, finding the edge of the table and using that to aim himself toward the corridor. "If you're still awake when I'm done, I can read to you."

Well, that was one sure way to guarantee Ignis beat sleep off with a stick. "I'd like that," he admitted. He didn't even need to ask what book Noct had in mind; it didn't matter.

With the promise of Noct providing entertainment, Ignis was energized enough to search Iris' room systematically for a spare set of sheets (mysteriously, they were found in the lower dresser drawer, wedged between boxes of ammunition). Noct showed up with damp hands while he was stripping off the old ones and ordered Ignis to go stand in the corner and think about the difference between _resting_ and _doing housework_.

A moment later, Noct made an aggrieved noise and said, "Okay, how does this thing even work?"

Ignis tried not to be too condescending as he explained fitted sheets, but it was difficult, and Noct kept laughing – _no, seriously_. After that ridiculousness Ignis found he didn't mind being nudged into bed, onto pillows traumatically fluffed and sheets that were oddly bunched. He'd been experimenting with different sleeping positions, now that he was no longer attached to tubes and tied down, but there really wasn't any way to get comfortable with the damage to his back. He held off on complaining, however, considering Noct had suffered far worse (and still managed to sleep any time and any place).

Noct eased himself down onto the other side, taking care not to jostle, and gave Ignis the choice between one of Iris' books (a cozy mystery with snark and housecats) and one which was undoubtedly Gladio's (a sweeping, weighty historical drama). Ignis chose the mystery – he prided himself on his ability to out-think most book detectives.

Noct fell asleep one chapter in, however, dropping the book on his face and barely even noticing ( _typical_ ). Ignis took a picture and sent it to Prompto and Gladio, captioned simply _naptime_. He was, however, asleep himself before either of their replies arrived.

*

Noct stayed with him another day before he announced that Luna – who, as another high-level potential target, was chafing under protective security – had requested her own investigation, and the Tenebraean national forces had a tentative lead on the plot which had led to Noct's attempted assassination. Noct was heading to Tenebrae to meet with them. _And hang out with Luna,_ he added.

"You're not going alone, I hope," Ignis asked sharply. He didn't like that the group which had ambushed their car had been able to use armor. It suggested a military connection to both their planning skills and resources; possibly Imperial, but Lucian couldn't be ruled out. The Lucian king's decision to abdicate and give political and administrative power to the people was seen by several nationalist groups as an act of betrayal. And of course many who had suffered under the reign of King Regis still bore resentment toward the Lucian line.

The casual way Noct brought up the investigation reminded Ignis keenly of the fact that the world had not stopped while he'd been in hospital. Of course progress was being made; it made perfect sense that he was out of the loop, considering he'd barely been coherent for those first few days. He certainly wasn't capable of participating, much less fighting. In his current condition, he certainly could not be trusted to keep Noct safe, and everyone knew it.

He felt oddly bereft. Noct spoke often and with longing of the day when he could tell politics to fuck off and just kick back, quote-unquote. Ignis... wasn't prepared to sever even his tenuous connection with the current government. He knew he was more than capable of finding other outlets for his energies and attention, but he found genuine pleasure in a well-run state. (Or at least he enjoyed striving towards that ideal: as the only person who'd ever sat in on Council meetings who yet lived, he would be the first to admit that Lucis and the de facto city-state of Insomnia had not been well-run, after years of war and siege had eroded all but the worst options.)

He didn't desire a leadership role; he knew his own weaknesses far too well for that. But he'd been made into an advisor and a strategist, and patterns of behavior and future possibilities were a landscape that he could still see clearly, provided he had data.

"Nope," Noct said. "I'm hitching a ride with Aranea and some of her people. I'll be back before you notice I'm gone." Ignis highly doubted that. His frustration must have shown, because Noct gave Ignis a rundown of his itinerary without being prodded for information.

In return, Ignis was polite and did not go into all the ways he knew – from personal experience – of taking down an airship. Noct had been present for all of those battles. Noct would, undoubtedly, be safe without him.

"I'll text," Noct said, cutting into remembered explosions playing in a loop in Ignis' head. "Hope you don't mind being on call as the diplomatic ace up my sleeve. Rumor is Accordo's sending the former First Secretary to Tenebrae next month to discuss the situation, and Luna's been invited to the reception. If anything happens to disrupt that, all hell will break loose."

"Which is precisely the result someone might desire."

"We don't know." Ignis imagined Noct shrugging, impatient with his own lack of knowledge. "Gladio's working this end of the investigation. He'll to be dropping by and making sure you get to your appointments, you can pump him for information."

"Indeed." Ignis longed for the convenience of a computer, but those were scarce, and issued only to those with demonstrable need. He could make do with his phone; he wondered who he could ask to find him a reliable typewriter.

"You're getting that look," Noct said. His tone was teasing, but for some reason he also sounded sad. "Your number one priority is to get better, you know that, right?"

Ignis had to smile. Being mother-henned by Noct would doubtless become annoying in time, but the experience was novel enough that he still found it charming. "Of course I do."

"Well," Noct said. "Good." And then after a moment, he sucked in a breath and sighed it all out again. "Help me figure out what to bring Luna. I can't show up empty-handed. Shoes or clothes or hair things? Chocolates? Do they still make those?"

"A moment," Ignis said, struggling to suppress his laughter – he was under doctor's orders to not laugh, yawn, sneeze, or otherwise strain himself. He was however definitely going to pass this conversation on to Luna, she'd be just as amused. He took a breath and then another, pushing against the now-familiar feeling of bruising in his chest, and then set about the soothing routine of helping Noct pack for his travels.

*

As soon as Noct was gone, Ignis set to work being as useful as he could be, under the circumstances. Gladio and Prompto had a schedule for dropping in and making sure he was fed and not wanting for anything, and he let himself be ruthless about pumping them for information. He missed the convenience of being able to fill a sheet of paper with the available data and connect it with colored lines and arrows, but being able to manipulate everything in his head was well within his capabilities. And the focus, he hoped, would let him see things that weren't immediately obvious.

The official investigation was targeting – discreetly, for the obvious diplomatic reasons – dissenters in Galahd and Niflheim. Ignis had full faith in the Civil Guard division in charge, not least because Gladio was second in command. But as more and more evidence was collected suggesting that a similar attack had been planned on Luna's ship as she arrived in Galdin Quay, including phoned-in reports of Magitek armor sighted moving through the coastal woods at night, the less Ignis believed that the motive was entirely political.

Noct was a plausible target; Ignis was keenly aware of the existence of anti-Lucian and anti-monarchy groups. Lady Lunafreya, the Oracle, healer of the Scrouge, on the other hand, was revered and respected.

Ignis was admittedly shaky on his cosmogony, but he phoned councilwoman Hino, and after bearing a brief inquiry into his health he asked her in turn if she could put him in touch with the scholars he and Noct had shared her hospitality with.

"It's an entirely separate matter," he lied. "I find convalescent inactivity disagrees with me, and they'd mentioned some recent papers that sounded fascinating."

"Better you than me," Hino said. "I'll pass along your message. And if you're looking for distraction, I just co-wrote a textbook on the fundamentals of electrical engineering. I'll send you a copy."

Ignis feigned gratitude – sometimes he was disturbed by how easily dishonesty came to him – and ended the call. Talking for so long had him slightly breathless, and he sat down on the sofa until it passed. His phone dinged cheerily at the arrival of – indeed – a very dull textbook peppered with mathematical equations that his screen reader proceeded to mutilate in its own rugged way. His amusement triggered an itch at the back of his throat that a moment later erupted as a brutal fit of coughing.

He grabbed one of the sofa cushions and held it tight against the wound where the chest tube had been, as he'd been cautioned to do, and tried to relax, concentrating on dragging in air and reminding himself that this was part of the glamour of recovery. When he finally got it under control his face was wet from tears and doubtless red and splotchy; he had a disgusting mouthful of phlegm that he needed to spit out _immediately_.

He felt limp and shaky as he made his way to the kitchen, and he was glad he was alone. Being seen like this would make him short-tempered, and he had no doubt he'd say the wrong things and end up alienating everyone again. He found the sink, spat, poured a half-cup of tea from the kettle to rinse his mouth with and spit again. Some people, he thought with great irritation and envy, managed to keep their dignity even whilst ill. He coughed again – he could feel it coming on this time, and braced himself, the coolness of the tiled sink under his hands a relief.

He washed his face and then dragged the comforter from the bed out to the sofa to made himself a nest at one end. He would stay warm, and that would improve things (it didn't). He'd nap upright, wedged in with pillows; it improved the cough, but he woke stiff and then had to painstakingly stretch the agonizing tightness out of his back. He'd take breaks from work, lying back and forcing himself to listen to yet another chapter of electrical engineering as calming white noise. Not to mention the endless cups of unpleasant herbal tea that he kept at hand, despite his conviction that the herbs' medicinal properties were spurious at best.

...He'd just set aside all his personal issues and concentrate on thinking the problem through. That was well within his capabilities.

By the end of the afternoon, he'd received replies from both biologists and the younger cosmogonist and begun his correspondence. He also made contact with several representatives of the delegations from the conference, and sent Noct a brief outline of his worries.

Noct replied with his own concerns, namely: _Aren't you supposed to be resting?_

_I've been on the sofa all day,_ he answered, quite truthfully. _I'm reading up on electrical engineering._

_I know you ,_ Noct said darkly. Ignis' amusement at that set off another wracking series of coughs, and he dropped his phone in the struggle to deal with that and the aftermath. 

He was not surprised to have Prompto let himself in while he was still in the kitchen, trying to get fresh air from the narrow window while boiling water.

"Oh hey, you're alive," Prompto said, sounding more annoyed than concerned. He narrated himself sending off a message to Noct: _Ignis not dead, just being an idiot._

"My apologies," Ignis said. His voice was rough, but there was no helping that. He hoped his visor hid enough of his face that any unnatural redness or splotching could go unnoticed. "The phone slipped."

Prompto sighed. "You're in disaster mode today, aren't you?" He moved into the room, accompanied by the sounds of tidying up. The comforter folded, pillows replaced, the collection of mugs on the coffee table corralled and carried clinking to be set in the sink. "Your phone," he said, and Ignis reached out automatically. The weight of it in his palm was accompanied by heavier guilt.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "It hadn't been my intention to cause concern."

"Eh." That was Prompto's verbal substitute for a shrug. Ignis heard him dampen the dishrag and start wiping the mugs down. "Did you eat lunch?" Ignis frowned. Surely he had? But he couldn't remember. "Dude." The sprayer hummed, and each mug was set down, a bit too hard, on the tea towel that doubled as a drying mat. "O-kay, so I guess we're having dinner together."

Ignis checked the time; as he suspected, it was only late afternoon, just slightly past four-thirty.

"I already took off work, don't worry about it," Prompto said. He wiped his hands on his clothes. "Are you running a fever?" He sounded suspicious, and Ignis willed his cough to stay away. He had no desire to be re-hospitalized.

I don't think so," he said, because outright denial would be suspicious. "Just... frustrated from not being ill enough to sleep all day, but not yet well enough to relieve the boredom."

"Yeah, well." Prompto didn't sound convinced at all. "I'm going to throw some spaghetti in the pot, you go sit down with – " another thump on the counter " – this cup of tea and then take your shirt off. I'm not saying," he added, nudging the mug against Ignis' fingers as he reached out for it, "you wouldn't tell us if you got an infection, because I trust you." He poked Ignis in the shoulder. "But I'm going to look anyway."

Ignis did as he was told; he wasn't sure how flexible Prompto's trust was currently, and he didn't want to break it. Breathing in the steam from the tea at least kept the cough down, and he _was_ relieved when Prompto checked his back and the breathing-tube site and pronounced everything normal.

"Or as normal as eight hundred stitches is, anyway."

Ignis grimaced. Most of the stitches had been removed, but he could still feel the pull from the injuries. "Does it look that bad?"

Prompto grabbed the pot of medicinal cream and started rubbing it in. Through the progress of his fingers, the picture Ignis got wasn't pretty. "It's not quite up there with some people who got stabbed through the heart and spine with a hundred swords, but traumatic injury shouldn't be a competitive sport. In my opinion. Especially if the gods aren't playing doctor. These ones – " his fingers slid along two jagged lines, one of them still in stitches " – would have killed you if they'd been a little more to the side, or you'd moved in the wrong way. All together, these say you're incredibly lucky. There, done." He gave Ignis a pat to his shoulder. "I'll go get you a new shirt. Stay out of the kitchen."

Ignis bit back a protest that he was not a toddler and, from what he recalled, his own mother had never fussed over him half this much. But that was his temper rearing up again, and he tamped it down firmly. He vowed he would behave better tomorrow. Turn over a new leaf, as it were.

*

Ignis spent the following days casting his net wide. He had to assume Lilia and Titus had already been questioned on whether they’d noticed identifying information about the armor pilots: a Tenebraean accent, Galadhan tattoos, and so on. But he had his own questions about the models and provenance of the tech itself; in his work with Talcott, he had become something of an expert on Imperial technology. Loosely speaking, Imperial armor fell into two main types, cold-weather and warm-weather, which in practice meant those deployed in Niflheim had to be modified. Better shielding and insulation, batteries engineered to prevent low-temperature power loss, different types of fluids and lubricants used to prevent lags in servo motor responsiveness, and so on. Ignis was hardly an expert, but he knew what to look for.

Titus was quick enough to admit he wasn’t familiar with Imperial tech, but Lilia had taken a handful of pictures. "I figured maybe stuff might go missing," she said in bland understatement. "Might come in use." If there _had_ been more assailants, with or without armor, who'd chosen to strike during the window of time when Ignis had been only barely conscious and Noct had only had a gun and a sword to protect them… or if someone had taken advantage of the turmoil to make off with the bodies or any other evidence… "Amicitia's got copies already."

Of course he did. Ignis admitted readily that he wasn't working with the official Lestallum investigation. But this had been an assault on hunters as well, and he apologized for that while at the same time acknowledging that he owed both of them his life. They were in agreement that it hadn't been his fault, and neither of them thought there was anything untoward about him asking to have the pictures sent on to Talcott. Someone tries to kill you, you track them down.

"Keep us in the loop," Titus said. "And don't push yourself too hard. That cough sounds bad."

"Coerl-mint tea," Lilia advised, "made with warm not boiled water. It's what my gran gave us."

Ignis dutifully made a note of that, and thanked them again before hanging up. 

He heard back from Nina, the Duscaean cosmogonist, before he got word from Talcott, and made plans accordingly. She was on site at Fort Vaullerey, where the new university was being cobbled together, but agreed to meet him at the ropeway station in Old Lestallum. Ignis was fairly sure he had an appointment at the hospital in the afternoon, but following up on leads was more important. As long as their assailants remained unknown, Noct and Luna would be in danger and Ignis would not rest.

He made a quick sandwich and sent a picture to Prompto – the all-important proof of lunch – and then wrapped it in paper to tuck into his bag, feeling absurdly like a child running away from home. He was careful as he walked to not push himself, and only really found himself out of breath on the stairs. He had to ask for directions to the station twice and then had a brief, tense entanglement with the ticket-sales machine, but other than that his excursion went off without a hitch. He had a few bites of his sandwich while looking out the window with curiosity – he'd always wondered what the view from here was like, and now he'd never know – but his stomach protested, so he stuck it back in his bag. He got a message from Talcott, confirming his suspicions about the Niflheim origin of the armors that had attacked them. Good. Pieces were fitting together.

When he alighted, he was relieved to be met just outside the ticket wicket. Nina used a wheelchair, and she directed him over to a small plaza with picnic tables _so you won't loom over me._

"I see," Ignis said, sitting gratefully before recalling that this might be poor manners. He could tell, by the smell and the squabbling of children, that there were food stalls a short way away. "Shall I bring us some refreshments?"

Nina snorted. "No offense, but I think I'm steadier on my feet than you are. I heard you got shot." Her tone suggested that she found this quite plausible. "Is that why you've developed a sudden interest in the Astrals and the meaning of life?"

Ignis leaned back, crossing his legs and taking as deep a breath as he dared. "I have two questions, both are far more pragmatic, I'm afraid. The first is how theology frames the destruction of Altissia. The second concerns Dr Sorvall, who lodged with us, as you may recall."

He heard the wheelchair brake released, as Nina moved closer. "Dr Sorvall's Accordian," she said, her voice going chilly. "You know what you're implying."

"Dr Sorvall has not replied to my inquiries herself," he replied evenly. "My preference would be to speak with her directly." He laced his fingers together. "People speak of the sacrifice of Altissia, the Tidemother's beloved child. Should the Oracle have realized that the sacred ritual of communion would be manipulated by the Empire? Was there another way that did not involve the deaths of thousands and the daemonification of the jewel of Accordo?"

He had to stop, breathless, and force air back into his lungs, ignoring the way this felt like he was jabbing something sharp against livid bruises. Nina pressed something into his hand – a travel flask – and he took careful sips of whatever it was. Tea, too sweet for his taste, but the warmth was grounding.

" _If the wickedness of men should wipe Altissia from this earth_ ," Nina quoted, while he was trying to wipe tears out of his eyes surreptitiously. She still sounded angry, but now more resigned. "Cosmogony shows that we as humans are… incredibly limited in comparison to the Astrals. Our lives start and end in the blink of their eye. Our wars and loves are nothing – we're no more than microbes to them, it's quite humbling. But Dr Sorvall – Alder – is a biologist. To her, even microbes are special."

"I have no love for the gods myself," Ignis murmured. "Respect and a healthy fear, yes, but I don't look to the stars for fairness."

"Justice," Nina corrected. "Justice for the wicked."

"How is it just to demand Lunafreya Nox Fleuret's life to pay for the victims of an imperial attack?" Ignis shook his head, and took another bracing sip of tea. "The Emperor and his military leaders perished in varying degrees of madness and agony. I was there."

That earned a questioning hum of professional interest, but Nina didn't let herself be distracted. "The injustice as I understand it is that only two lives were returned – pester Alder for details, it's not a belief I hold myself."

Ignis sipped at her tea and felt his shoulders drop. He wanted the conspirators to be nameless and faceless, not anyone he knew.

"I don't know how deeply involved she is, but – you've visited Altissia?" Ignis confirmed that he had. "They call themselves Angeli. They just want... to defeat the wicked, I suppose. It's probably comforting, to believe that the world could be made right so easily."

Ignis thought about water rights, and hospitals struggling without medicine, and deadly technologies left lying about for anyone to seize. He recalled Altissia's many statues of Leviathan as a winged figure in robes, that had been so casually razed when the goddess herself had awoken.

He was filled with a thick sadness at the waste of it all, but didn't know how to voice that. He hoped Nina understood anyway. He returned her flask and stood, stretching carefully.

"Your name won't be disclosed to her during our inquiries, of course," he said, hoping he had the right to promise that. Gladio, he knew, would understand, but he didn't know what Lestallum law stated.

Nina's wheels shifted back to make a neat quarter-turn, and then started across the plaza toward the station; Ignis followed. "I'll tell her myself. I owe her that." She sighed. "I remember being that young once myself."


	5. Chapter 5

On the ropeway trip back, Ignis embarrassed himself by having to cough into his handkerchief on and off the entire way. When he finally alighted in Lestallum, he had to sit in the waiting room for a good ten minutes, nursing a cup of tea from the kiosk in hopes it quelled his splitting headache. He could still make his appointment at the hospital if he hurried, but that seemed unlikely in his current condition. Plus, he had actual information that he needed to report to the authorities; perhaps Gladio would go easy on him if Ignis could prove he hadn't just been wasting his time.

Not to mention that Iris' apartment was uphill and the Civil Guard offices were straight down the main road on the right. Ignis was not confident that stairs were a good idea at the moment. As he walked, he let himself indulge in bad temper. He was angry with his body, for its slow recovery; at the fatigue that sucked him back down just when he started to hope it was gone; at being witnessed at his most vulnerable, albeit with fondness, when he loathed the idea of being seen as weak. His irritation was like tinder, trying desperately to spark some reserve of energy that would get him through the day. He had never hit rock bottom before, and he would not do so now.

Even if he had to stop to catch his breath every five meters, one hand planted on the nearest wall to hold himself upright.

He straightened his clothes and pushed his hair back before venturing inside and asking for Gladio at the front desk. Gladio appeared with preternatural speed, and Ignis wondered, amused, if he'd run. He could smell sweat and damp cotton, which suggested a workout, although Gladio – damn him – wasn't breathless at all.

"What's wrong?" was the first thing he said, and Ignis frowned up at him.

"Nothing." And then he remembered he was trying to avoid defensiveness. "I was passing by on my way back." He hoped that Gladio assumed he meant from the hospital, but he wasn't prepared to lie outright, so he hurried on. "I wanted to discuss the investigation."

"The one you're not involved in," Gladio said flatly. "The one the Civil Guard are in charge of. Not civilians."

"Your guard wouldn't have me," Ignis reminded him. He'd never been heart-broken over being told that his disability precluded his eligibility – his talents lay elsewhere, he liked to think – but it did seem like a very _short-sighted_ policy. "I'll be leaving, then?"

Gladio heaved out a sigh like he was suffering, but said he could spare a few minutes out in the training yard. Ignis held back a smile; he had fond memories of besting new recruits here, and Gladio didn't disappoint him. On their way back, he stopped at the supply desk and checked out a set of throwing knives, handing them over with a smirk evident in his tone.

"You've had some free-floating hostility, I've been told," Gladio said. "Let's go do something with it."

Ignis would have to do something very nice for Prompto, he decided. He'd see what could be had in the market. He hadn't had an opportunity to really cook in a while; perhaps this convalescent rest period could be used for some practice. Once he'd ensured Noct was safe, of course.

Gladio shoved open the doors and held them for Ignis to pass through. Outside, the air in the courtyard had already taken on a chill from the afternoon shadows. He felt the cold go right through him, but he'd warm right up with a bit of exertion, he imagined.

"You've got your pick of targets," Gladio said. "There's a bunch here Iris made. Magitek armor, ronin, the existential sense of despair."

"What does that one look like?" Ignis asked. He forgot sometimes how fond of philosophy the Amicitias were.

"Staring into a void forever," Gladio said off-hand. Ignis pointed out that this also described his blindness, but yet he was far too practical to have an existential sense of anything. Gladio didn't exactly admit he'd lost the argument, but he guided Ignis' fingers around the lines drawn on the paper. Ignis got the sense that it looked like two squid mating.

"Very talented," he said, because he couldn't say it was especially good.

"Right? Let's start with that one. Try and aim for the middle of the void."

Ignis followed Gladio as he carried the target down to tack up. He knew the courtyard, length and breadth, and as he felt the outline of the target mat he pictured it set up against the wall. Gladio indicated where the windows were, a few meters to the left, and then sent Ignis back fifteen paces.

As soon as Ignis was assured that Gladio was out of range he aligned himself with the target and let the first knife fly.

"Low," Gladio said. "What'd you want to ask me?"

Ignis tried to keep his breathing steady and even. He could lie without batting an eyelash, but Gladio knew how to read his body nearly as well as he did. "Have you encountered an Accordian group called Angeli?" He raised his arm, accepting but also ignoring the pull of the wounds on his back, and let his next throw fly.

"Angels?" Gladio was still in a way that made Ignis feel like he was being examined. "Can't say we have? Why?" And then like an afterthought, "Better. Two more, and then switch to your left hand."

Ignis had the sinking feeling that Gladio knew he was barely able to keep his feet, and was... not punishing him, but trying to force him to give up. Which he should know by now was futile.

"They hold Lunafreya responsible," and no, Ignis was not going to be able to finish that sentence without dragging in a breath, "for Altissia." Frustrated, he threw the next two knives in quick succession. He heard, with a dull sense of horror, the second hit the dirt, and felt the sea-change go through Gladio from watchfulness to outright scrutiny.

"Yeah, I think the existential sense of despair wins this round," Gladio said. "Go sit your ass down."

Ignis did as he was told, listening to the sounds of Gladio putting the knives away and taking the target down. "You'll want to talk to Dr Alder Sorvall. She's a biologist." He tried to unobtrusively lean back against the wall behind the bench. "I don't think... she's involved directly. But I suspect she was passing on information."

Gladio dropped down onto the bench at Ignis' side with a sigh. "This isn't your job, Iggy. What are you doing? Do you not trust me enough to let me handle – hell, this isn't even about an investigation, it's about Noct. Keeping him safe. There are better ways of showing you care about him than running yourself into the ground."

"All the care in the world won't matter if he's dead," Ignis pointed out. "And I'm quite well aware that he doesn't need me looking after him anymore. Still." Two breaths, he bargained, but settled for five. "The habit of a lifetime dies hard."

Gladio snorted. "The kid's crazy for you." Ignis swallowed back a knee-jerk refutation and coughed instead – painfully and at length – while Gladio rubbed his back in apology, getting up at one point and returning with a tin cup of water.

Ignis took shallow sips and pressed his free hand hand flat against the center of his chest, using the pressure to focus his breathing, counting slow seconds until he was sure he was fine. He used the back of his free hand to wipe his eyes and told himself Gladio wouldn't notice. "He deserves," Ignis started, but Gladio cut him off.

"Nope. Try again. There's no royalty or Crown servants anymore, so no expectations, no paparazzi or officious old people with arranged marriages they suffered for fifty years. There's Noct, and there's you." He sighed, and took back the cup. Ignis suspected his hand was shaking, and that was why his fingers were wet. "He's never going to ask you," Gladio went on, ruthlessly blunt. "It's your own fault – so long as you still treat him like he's King, he's going to be allergic to giving you orders and demands and declarations of love."

"He still is my King," Ignis said softly. "You of all people know that."

"It's complicated," Gladio agreed. "But the fact is, he's mostly just a person these days. Magic doesn't answer to him anymore. He wants... well. World peace first, but then fishing." He tapped Ignis' shoulder with his fist. "You literally set yourself on fire for him once, don't tell me you're scared of asking him."

"If he says no – "

"Then me and Prompto will take you in and feed you ice cream and listen to stupid sad songs together."

"The world ended," Ignis reminded him. "There is no more ice cream."

" _Your_ world will fucking end if you keep pissing me off," Gladio said. "Come on. I asked Wendy to bring a car around, I'm taking you back to the hospital."

Ignis closed his eyes and apologized, which Gladio refused to accept – _we both know you don't mean it_ – but then had to ask: "Did you know? About the Angeli or the Altissian connection?" Had he just wasted his time and energy, stumbling around like a blind fool, when the truth was evident to anyone who had the eyes to see?

Gladio put an arm around him, helping him to his feet, and then when Ignis was steady, began walking him out to the garage. "We've been focusing on Galahd. There's a bunch of nationalist groups operating from there. The Imperial armors were probably brought in by truck, and it's not unusual for vehicles in that area to be moving goods north-south."

"South-north," Ignis corrected. "The armors were built to be deployed within Niflheim."

"You're a fucking menace," Gladio said. Normally, Ignis would take that as a compliment, but Gladio sounded so resigned that he felt guilty instead. But Gladio pressed him for information on the drive to the hospital, taking notes and getting copies of all the relevant correspondence. When they were dropped off, Gladio told Wendy to _get on that, okay_ and Ignis was disproportionately relieved at being taken seriously.

Well worth overdoing things a little, he thought, if Noct – and Luna, and any other targets or bystanders – would be safe.

His doctor, who'd been forced to squeeze time from her schedule, seemed to take personal affront to his cough. She listened to his chest, prodded his healing wounds, checked his eyes for some reason, and wanted to know when he'd started running a fever.

"Fever," Gladio repeated, his voice flat. Ignis had the fleeting, fanciful thought that perhaps he was experiencing a second adolescence, with how many people were disappointed in him lately. He hadn't objected when Gladio had said he'd come into the examination room. Ignis had thought it a kindness, as Gladio knew he found the unseen bustle of the hospital stressful, but he was starting to have regrets now.

"Don't tell Noct," Ignis said, in quick, shameful entreaty. "He'd only worry."

" _Somebody_ needs to worry," his doctor said acidly. "This is exactly what we were trying to prevent by _sending you home_. The longer you're in hospital, the likelier you'll catch something. And if your luck runs out - trust me, you've been _very_ lucky so far - you're looking at another collapse and potential surgery. Our surgical survival rates are not especially good. Do you have a headache? Sore throat?"

A blood test and set of x-rays later (which he knew the hospital could ill-afford to squander), Ignis walked out of the hospital with Gladio's supporting arm still around his waist and a new supply of medicine.

"So I asked Prompto and he agrees, we're going to tie you down to the fucking bed and make you stay there." Gladio used his hip to guide Ignis into a turn; heading south, Ignis thought, but not the shortcut through the market.

Ignis sighed, his mental map fraying. He'd woken up with so much that he needed to do, but now that he'd achieved most of his goals, he suspected he could easily be seduced into napping, even without bondage. "Fine. But we both know Noct doesn't need to be bothered with this. Please."

Gladio shrugged. "I'm not lying to him for you." He gave Ignis a squeeze. "Use your head, Iggy. If it was him in trouble and keeping you in the dark, you'd be pissed."

He tugged Ignis sharply to the side, away from a group of parents with children who passed in a blur of laughter and chatter. There was a metaphor, Ignis thought, in the differences between the way Gladio guided Ignis – impatiently and with repressed exasperation, assuming Ignis was slacking – and Prompto's solicitous, occasionally smothering, care. He benefited from both approaches, depending on the situation; and he knew as well as anyone that he was never the most gracious when he needed to ask for help.

But today Gladio was distracted by annoyance with himself for not, Ignis supposed, having kept a closer eye on him. And by frustration with Ignis (for being an idiot), and with Noct (for leaving him to deal with this mess)... a well-rounded bad mood made the worse for him not being able to do anything about it. This meant that he was even more cavalier with keeping an eye out for Ignis. Normally, Ignis _liked_ when people forgot his blindness, or assumed he was capable of doing everything the sighted could. But he wasn't, and he was utterly taken by surprise by a patch of wet, slimy pavement that sent his feet skidding out from under him.

He was not too proud to grab for Gladio, and they ended up tumbling down the first few steps of a stairway into an alley. Gladio swore, low and furious with the force of his fear, and Ignis... leaned into him and laughed, and wheezed, and laughed, and fought to get his breath back, until he was limp and shaking from the effort of forcing air into his lungs but still effervescent with amusement. He let Gladio run his hands over him, checking for broken bones and bruises and making sure Ignis hadn't cracked his skull or ripped open any wounds. While Ignis was still too breathless to talk, Gladio called the hospital.

That wouldn't do at all. Ignis wanted to go _home_. "I'm fine," he made himself say. "Truly." He was certain he'd recognize the nauseating, white-hot stab of anything serious.

Gladio patted his back until the nurse was finished explaining the danger signs that he should look for. After he hung up, he ran his hand through Ignis' hair, tousling it entirely out of style. "You've got pneumonia and I just threw you down the stairs. That's a new definition of _fine_ for me." He called a taxi next, ignoring Ignis' protest that he'd be fine walking the five blocks back to Iris' apartment. Once he got his feet under him, and provided he had reliable guidance.

"Just fucking _stop_ ," Gladio snapped. "You think we'll all be fine when you finally succeed in killing yourself?"

"What?" Ignis said, shocked and confused by that baseless accusation.

"You're burning yourself up," Gladio said. "Everyone can see it. And there's no way we can make you happy – you're the only one who can ask for what you want, and you're too much of a coward to do it. It's killing _me_ to watch."

He sounded so wounded that Ignis set aside his irritation at being so wrongly accused, and pulled Gladio into an awkward sideways hug. "We're okay," he said. "You've got all of us. I," he had to pause to breathe and used the time to mentally regroup, "apologize for scaring you. But please remember I'm much stronger than I look."

"You haven't seen yourself in a while," Gladio pointed out. It was _low_ of him to insist on having the last word, when Ignis could barely manage a conversation. "Or Noct for that matter."

Just as soon as Ignis got enough strength back to fight, he'd _crush_ Gladio for saying that. What wouldn't he give to see Noct again with his own eyes?

The clenching of his jaw and fists must have given him away.

"Shit," Gladio said, then: "Sorry." He slid his hands under Ignis' thighs, heedless of the step's rough stone and Ignis' temper. With an effortless display of power, he hoisted Ignis up to perch on his lap, pulled back to rest snug and sullen against his chest. "I'm an asshole, you don't need to waste your breath telling me." One of his hands rubbed Ignis' chest in broad, soothing strokes. "You and I are too alike. I look at you and think I know what's best, and end up trying to walk all over you."

Ignis tried to explain that he neither needed nor wanted a big brother, but focusing was hard. He was relaxing despite himself; which, he supposed, proved what Gladio was saying.

"Our ride's here," Gladio told him after a while, while Ignis was still drifting. He was sure he looked drunk or worse as Gladio helped him to his feet and over to the hired car. But doubtless the driver was accustomed to passengers who were under the weather in one way or another.

He dozed off during the ride, and didn't bother waking all the way up for the short walk from the road to Iris' apartment. Once inside, Gladio insisted on stripping him naked and settling him in a hot bath, scented with something of Iris' that Gladio said was good for sore muscles. It smelled minty and calming, at any rate, and the steam made breathing easier. Every so often Gladio reappeared with another kettle of hot water to top the bath off. Being waited on hand and foot was, Ignis had to admit, heavenly.

When Ignis was told it was time to get out, Prompto appeared to assist with toweling off and pajamas, rubbing ointment over scrapes and bruises and checking out how well the scars that littered his back were healing. Ignis apologized for – apparently – always making trouble, and Prompto said not to worry (which wasn't exactly the negation Ignis had hoped for). He was escorted to the dining table, where Gladio was setting out mugs of soup, reminding Ignis of the terrible days before he regained confidence with cutlery. He suspected he'd be associating soup with illness long after he was recovered.

"You've got to get something in you to take the drugs, so drink up." That was followed by a hearty slurp, possibly meant to sound enticing, and then the sound of skin hitting leather: Prompto, no doubt, chiding Gladio with a slap to his ass. No matter how friendly he was being, those always stung, and Gladio responded with a startled _hey_ and then something that made Prompto laugh, sexy and low. Ignis busied himself – silently – with his own soup, eavesdropping being as bad as staring in his book.

He wanted what they had, with a yearning greater than any hunger; he wanted, and denied, and was so weary of all the rituals of denial.

He had managed to swallow nearly half of his soup down when Prompto dragged a chair out and dropped into it, leaning his arms on the table and resting his head on them. "We haven't said anything to Noct yet," he said, and fiddled with something on the table. "Here, bread roll. Butter?" Ignis shook his head; butter was still rare, and he'd hate for it to go to waste. "If you want to send a note yourself."

Ignis found the roll and broke off a piece, tasting it while his thoughts failed to coalesce. He didn't know what they wanted him to say. That he was chastised? That he'd learnt some lesson? That he certainly wasn't self-destructive, no matter what Gladio seemed to believe? That he would be good and accept his limitations, stay out of trouble and everyone's hair?

"It's cool if you're too tired," Prompto said, in a way that suggested he was glaring at Gladio. Daring him to say otherwise. "I'll write it up, and you tell me if it's too much, and then you take your meds and go to sleep."

Ignis heard him slide his phone onto the table and then start tapping at the screen. "'Hey dude'," Prompto started, and then there was a pause and a snort. "You're in luck, he's offline. So. 'Just to keep you in the loop, Gladio took Iggy to the doctor's and he's got pneumonia. Iggy says don't hurry back'?" Prompto's voice rose in question, and Ignis nodded. "'Apparently it's a thing people pick up in hospitals, Gladio says. Crappy souvenir if you ask me.' Send?" Ignis nodded again.

"Tell him to bring back something better," Gladio contributed from the kitchen, where Ignis suspected he'd self-exiled to avoid Prompto's pokes and jabs. "Those cakes he likes."

Ignis felt a pang at the idea of Noct walking into a bakery and being able to procure what Ignis, in a decade of trying, had never been able to give him.

"Flowers," Prompto suggested. "Those blue ones. Or are you allergic?"

Ignis realized with a start that he was expected to participate in this exchange. "I don't need anything," he said. He'd sent Noct off with a list of questions, and he truly was interested in the answers, which would prove valuable in meetings with other governments. To what extent were the trains and ferries operational, and would Tenebrae have sufficient food to get through the months until the harvest. Did they have enough skilled workers to ensure there would be a harvest. How were they dealing with potential assassination plots, and so on.

"Of course you don't." Gladio sounded like he wished he could just stop caring. "Just... take your medicine and shut up, okay?"

"Hey," Prompto said, getting up and going into the kitchen, followed by the rattling of paper bags. "It's going to be okay, you know that, right?"

Ignis would have rolled his eyes if he wasn't sure that would bring on a splitting headache, and a moment later realized Prompto wasn't even talking to him.

"Yeah," Gladio said, and they kissed, loud enough to be heard from where Ignis sat. He didn't know where to look; he stared down at his mug, clutched snugly in his hands, and wanted to be kissed. To kiss. To have the right to touch. To be touched, to not hurt all the time. Like a dam had burst, he wanted, and perhaps his resolve was weakened by fever, but he let himself be swept away.

When Prompto came back with water and pills, Ignis took them obediently. But as he was walked to the bedroom (leave it to Prompto to know he couldn't be trusted to not walk into the walls), he said, quietly, testing the waters, "It's okay if you tell Noct he can come." Prompto made a questioning noise, and Ignis clarified. "I want him to – " He ran out of breath, perhaps more on purpose than by accident, and Prompto got him to the bed and sat him down, rubbing his back gingerly.

Ignis was mostly asleep by the time Prompto eased him back onto the piled-up pillows and tucked him in. Prompto said something, but all Ignis gathered was that it was a question. He was sure he'd have even more answers in the morning; Prompto would just have to wait.

*

He was woken by desperate need of the bathroom, and found as he shuffled from bed to hall that his breathing had eased dramatically. He actually felt rested for the first time since... well. In a week or so, he supposed. Perhaps longer. He had no idea what time it was – his phone was missing from his pocket – but a glance out the bathroom window seemed to suggest either late night or very early morning. He didn't like being awake and alone with his thoughts in the darkness – he'd had enough of that for one lifetime – and after pissing, drinking a glass of water, and brushing his teeth, he made his way back to the bedroom.

He missed having a bed of his own; the bed in his uncle's guest room had been his more-or-less for sixteen years, and he'd never appreciated at the time how perfect it had been. A nice firm mattress that didn't sag or smell, no fear of vermin. He missed the comfort of being surrounded by things he had chosen to own or to keep. He longed, he supposed, for a home of his own.

He knew he could blame the melancholy and self-pity squarely on medications, but in truth he had the mortifying suspicion that they merely amplified pre-existing feelings that he routinely kept buried. He'd had a quilt on his bed in his uncle's house in Insomnia; his mother had made it for him when he left home, and for months he'd clung to it at night, imagining it smelled like her. He'd left it behind when they set out from the city, and doubtless it was long since burned or decayed.

He didn't need it, of course, and had he survived all these long years with far less, while suffering greater losses. But as he closed his eyes again, he was acutely aware that he no longer recalled what his mother's scent had been like; nor the touch of her hands. He just knew what she had looked like, because he'd always been told he looked just like her. _Do what makes you happy,_ he remembered her telling him once, one finger pushing the stubborn corner of his mouth up until he gave in, his smile mirroring her own.

Well. Perhaps it was past time that he took her advice.

*

He woke a second time to find the room fuzzy with daylight, and he took inventory of his aches and the dry tightness of his skin as he got up, stretched carefully so as not to trigger another bout of coughing, and faced the day.

He could recognize that he was under the weather, though physically and metaphorically he was breathing far easier this morning than he had in weeks. The first order of business was to get dressed. His back hurt when he took off his shirt, and raising his arms to tug off his undershirt pulled at all his new scars. His chest was not bruised – Prompto would have told him – but his ribs felt battered from coughing, and his diaphragm and stomach were as sore as if he'd taken a beating. He was still physically weaker than he could ever recall, including in the aftermath of the battle of Altissia.

He pulled on the first shirt he found – the black one, with pockets – and sat on the bed to change his trousers, not keen to take another fall. He had bruises in staircase form, climbing down from his hip to below his knees, welts that were probably turning garish purple. They were warm to a slight touch and tender to a harder prod, so he covered up with trousers and went to go wash his face and do his hair. He disliked being seen when he was an unstyled mess, and his hair was far too long now to leave down.

He should probably cut it again. He just hadn't had time, and now he wondered why. The pressure to survive and prepare for Noct's return and death was gone; despite how highly he held himself in esteem, he was well aware that the world would roll on smoothly without his expertise. He supposed he was simply unaccustomed to the idea of having time that was _his_ and his alone.

He considered that, and concluded that he found that degree of freedom both terrifying and oddly peaceful, the way he imagined freefall would feel. He was being ridiculous, he knew, and resolved to... do something. Details to be decided later, he noted at the bottom of his mental agenda, and rose to go see about breakfast.

Someone was trying to be quiet in the kitchen, and he worried. He didn't want Iris to return to a mess. (And that was another way his selfishness was simply making trouble for his friends. He'd have to do something nice for Iris, who'd probably expected him to stay only a few days.)

Fortunately – perhaps – the culprit was Gladio, so presumably his status as revered older sibling would protect him. He blocked the way into the galley kitchen, his bulk filling the doorframe, and told Ignis to go sit down and wait for the eggs to cook. Ignis asked about Prompto, and whether he and Gladio had both stayed the night, which was... the idea made his cheeks burn. He didn't need minders.

"We defiled Iris' sleeping bags," Gladio said, nonchalant. "Prompto went to wash them because he's worried she might take up a new career in boyfriend-slaying." Then he snorted, and gave Ignis a friendly shake. "Not really – I'm fucking with you. We crashed on the floor, and he _is_ doing laundry, but nothing interesting happened. Hang on a sec." He wiped his hands off – hopefully on a towel and not his trousers – and checked for fever. "You're still kind of hot."

Ignis rolled his eye (he hadn't been able to find his visor; someone had likely set it down in the wrong place) and said, "Yes, I know," stepping back and away from the annoyance of over-solicitous worry. He skirted the table and went to curl up in the corner of the sofa. Prompto had told him the view from the balcony was _mundane_ , just a clutter of buildings across the alleyway, but the strong Lestallum sun still made its way through the glass-paneled doors. Bright enough to be soothing, at any rate; Ignis enjoyed the way the light flickered, imagining lines of washing strung up to take advantage of the weather.

He woke up _again_ when Prompto came home, and was a cranky mixture of disoriented and embarrassed while Prompto threw open the doors and hung out the laundry.

"Sleep's supposed to be the great healer, right?" Prompto said, waving off Ignis' apology as he came back in and headed for the kitchen to (Ignis supposed) grope Gladio again. "How come it's not working?"

"You saw him yesterday," Gladio said cryptically. Then he raised his voice, even though the rooms were small enough that wasn't necessary in the least. "Yo, breakfast."

Ignis finished everything he was served and had seconds. He hadn't even realized that half of his moodiness was from simple hunger. He'd been ravenous. Fancy that. He let Prompto clear off the table and do the dishes without protest, and took all his medicines dutifully, even the ones that Gladio said caused drowsiness. He opened his mouth to make a joke about how he obviously wouldn't be operating any vehicles or heavy machinery, but then swallowed it down again. He was uneasy with the concept of being worried about, and he wouldn't want to offend, not when Gladio and Prompto were taking such good care of him. It wasn't their fault that he was as prickly as a cactuar when fussed over.

He did make Gladio tell him the schedule for taking the new pills, so that he could do that himself, and drew up a shopping list.

"I know you both have work, and I really do hate monopolizing your time," he said. "I promise I won't set foot outside for the next few days, so there's no reason for you to put off your own lives to watch me sleep."

"It's cute, though," Gladio said. "We have pictures." Then he grunted as Prompto kicked him under the table; fairly hard, judging by the sound of it. Ignis would need to make sure those pictures were thoroughly deleted. "We thought we'd take turns, for the next couple of days. I can get time off work." He didn't outright say that he didn't trust Ignis, but they were both aware of that underlying tension.

"In the middle of an ongoing investigation?" Ignis asked. He honestly didn't mean to sound quite so needling, and rubbed at his temples in irritation with himself.

"Just making sure a key witness doesn't cough up a lung."

Prompto snorted. "Just doin' my job," he parroted, sing-song. "Lighten up, it'll be fun. Like a sleepover in movies. We can play cards and do puzzles, make origami animals, learn the dance steps for top-40 songs. Things that don't involve lying to me so you can sneak out of town to conduct super-spy maneuvers with people you're lucky didn't want to kill you, too."

By this point, Ignis suspected there was no debased coin more worthless than his apologies. He hoped that Gladio and Prompto thought the fever was the reason his face was so red, but he suspected he was broadcasting his shame with perfect clarity.

"And you say _I'm_ an asshole." Gladio sounded admiring. Ignis bit his tongue on a scathing comment about how sweet and supportive their love was. "You better not be lying about dance moves."

"We all know you take those _very seriously_ ," Prompto agreed. "Seeing as your kid sister keeps kicking your ass."

"I wanted to make Iris something," Ignis interrupted. "To thank her for her kindness."

"No cooking while you're germy. Food safety 101, probably. But," Prompto went on, hooking his foot around Ignis' ankle under the table, "I approve of stress baking. Throw in a pie or something for me, and I'll take kitchen orders, mix up whatever you tell me to."

Prompto deserved a hundred pies, Ignis thought, and asked for pen and paper, to draw up a shopping list.


	6. Chapter 6

The pies turned out remarkably well, all things considered, as did the cookies and muffins. Ignis' fever broke on the second day, and two days later his doctor said that he seemed to be making good progress, though she credited that to his minders (so long as they refrained from tossing him down the stairs again). Ignis gave her a tin of cookies; she gave him a cactuar sticker, which he tucked in his wallet to pass on to Talcott. Shortly after that, Gladio got word that Noct was cutting short his visit with Luna and heading back. _Says former First Secretary Claustra decided not to travel under the circumstances, blah blah diplomatic bullshit._

From what Ignis gathered, despite Gladio's parsimony with information, there did seem to be an Accordian connection to the assassination attempts, and people were being taken in for questioning. He worried that Noct would be vulnerable as he traveled between Tenebrae and Lestallum, but Gladio just pointed out that _We got him there safely, what makes you think we can't bring him back?_ Ignis sighed and ceded the point; he had reached the point where he could admit to being less than rational in all matters where Noct was concerned.

Noct arrived back in Lestallum in the middle of the week, and fortunately Ignis had been able to persuade Prompto to let him help him clean and shop in preparation. He liked being able to present at least the appearance of having his life under control, despite all evidence to the contrary.

"Aren't you supposed to be lying down?" Noct asked as soon as Prompto let him in, in lieu of pleasantries. Ignis held back a sigh.

"It's walking pneumonia," he said stiffly. "Not bed-rest pneumonia."

Prompto expressed his opinion via a loud snort. Ignis heard the thump of a bag being dropped to the side of the door, and then the sound of Noct battling his bootlaces.

"I've got to be going soon," Prompto called from the veranda, where he was taking down the laundry and folding it into piles: Ignis' in a basket, to go on the bedroom floor, and his and Gladio's, which he'd bring home with him. "My sense of self-preservation just kicked in."

"I owe you," Noct said, padding through the living room to the wide-open doors.

 _So that was how it was going to be_ , Ignis thought, shoulders slumping, and headed back into the kitchen to finish preparing for lunch. He beat the eggs and scrambled them, then set them aside while he started slicing the carrots into fine slivers to add in. He heard Noct and Prompto laugh about something, and then Prompto dashed off, the front door banging like an exclamation mark.

"Hey," Noct said, wandering into the kitchen. "Need any help?"

Ignis gave him an incredulous look. He recalled all too well the breakfasts ruined by Noct's inability to perform the simplest of culinary tasks. "I can manage quite well on my own. Thank you." And then, because he wanted more than anything to keep things right between them, he added, "How was your trip? Is Lunafreya well?"

Noct laughed, leaning against the counter just out of the way of Ignis' elbow. "Why ask me? You guys chat all the time. She made your recipes for me, calling it was Lucian home cooking." Ignis felt a swift displacement of air, and his hand, reaching for the next carrot round, came down on emptiness.

"Put them back, Noct." One round was returned, and Ignis huffed in annoyance. "You're being ridiculous."

"Probably," Noct agreed, sounding smug. "Luna was saying that people's taste buds change as they get older, so some stuff gets easier to eat. But you're being pretty optimistic here, Specs."

Ignis held out his hand, and another round was dropped into his palm.

"Just saying."

Ignis had intended to have a nice, relaxing meal and catch up, swap stories and anecdotes, enjoy each others' company. But instead he found himself frustrated into snapping, "I love you more than life itself, but touch the food one more time and you will be stabbed."

"Love you, too," Noct returned, together with the carrots, which rolled off the back of the cutting board with sad little _thunk_ s. After a pause, he added with trepidation, "Are we talking about this now?"

Ignis put the knife down and turned, leaning back against the counter so he was standing, he fancied, in a copy of Noct's own posture, with a slight adjustment made for his still-bruised hips. He crossed his arms and forced his breathing even and slow. Noct would have no reason to know just how bad the wheezing had been. "Gladio tells me you won't talk about it on your own, so I suppose that rather leaves you at my mercy, doesn't it?"

"It'd be more comforting if you had a reputation for being merciful," Noct agreed. "I think it's fucked up that you'd prefer to die protecting me than... whatever."

"Some people are in no position to talk," Ignis said, because _honestly_. "Some people were literally a corpse I was carrying to his grave."

Noct was barefoot – decent slippers were hard to come by in the post-apocalyptic recovery – so Ignis found his movements harder to follow as he took a step closer. Or perhaps Ignis was too distracted by memories. Perversely, the very things he'd rather never think about again were the ones that leapt to the forefront of his mind when he was under pressure, or worried, or desperate for sleep. Noct's death was a memory of duty that had to be borne, of pressing his full weight hard against unresisting shoulders while Gladio dragged free the sword pinning Noct to the throne, of feeling his precious head loll heavier than in sleep, while Prompto beside him shuddered with suppressed tears.

So he was startled by the sudden touch to his forearm. He stiffened and flinched back, with just enough presence of mind to not grab for the knife.

"Sorry," Noct said, contrite and weary, his hand gone almost immediately. "I didn't – that's overstepping."

Ignis reached for him, trying to call back that touch, and his fingers were clasped before he had to grope about; good, he despised groping.

"A lifetime of reflexes is not so easily abandoned," Ignis pointed out. "I want you to touch me." He felt naked admitting that. "Just bear in mind that I don't see you coming." That, he hoped, gave him more dignity than bringing up how lost in his thoughts he got, sometimes.

Noct squeezed his fingers, and when he replied his grin was obvious. "How do you feel about dirty jokes? Because you left yourself wide open for one, there." Ignis tried to give him a reproving look and not grin back, because they weren't twelve-year-olds, but he must not have done a very good job, because Noct didn't sound chastised in the least. "Can I kiss you? Is that something you want?"

Ignis wasn't _delicate_ , and he had a strong visceral reaction to being treated as such. It made him want to do reckless and probably dangerous things. He'd spent most of his childhood with bruises and broken bones, bloodied knees and elbows, from being told he was too young or too small. He'd needed to push those limits as far as he could, until they broke.

"Fair warning," Noct added. "It'll probably suck. I haven't kissed anyone that way, ever."

Ignis' face flamed, and he could only hope that it was nothing Noct would notice. "I'm sorry," he said, because he was. Noct had had so much life stolen from him, needlessly and cruelly.

"That isn't even one of my top ten regrets," Noct said. "Plus Gladio tells me you know what you're doing." Ignis might as well resign himself to a permanent flush at this rate. "Don't you dare apologize for that, either," Noct added, with unnerving prescience. "Don't _ever_. Like I'd have wanted any of you to be alone. Also, he gave me an open invite for a foursome. To see what I've been missing."

"A bold step for the man still working up the nerve for his first kiss," Ignis said; overly tart, perhaps, but he was off-balance and utterly off-script. The words came out too much like a dare, and when had Noct ever backed down from one of those?

Noct put his free hand on Ignis' cheek, and Ignis found it impossible not to lean into that touch. He felt the tension go through Noct as he raised up on his toes, and his breath caught. In the next second Noct's lips brushed over his own, an experimental assay that nonetheless set Ignis' blood on fire. He supposed that he ought to take the lead – assume the teaching role, as the older and more experienced – but there was something so innately _charming_ about being object of and witness to Noct's desire that made him thirst for more. He kissed back, of course, just as slowly and sweet, and wrapped Noct up in his arms because he'd perish if he couldn't.

When Noct finally pulled back, with one last dart in as if he couldn't resist another kiss, he laughed, breathless. "You close your eyes when you kiss."

Ignis pointedly didn't bother opening the one eye he had any control over. The kitchen was too dark for ambient light to be any use to him anyway, much as he mourned not being able to see Noct's face, now. "And apparently you don't."

"It's symbolic," Noct said. "Going into this eyes open and all that." His fingers on Ignis' cheek ran lightly over the ragged lower edge of the scar, where the skin that had burned away never regrew properly. "Does this hurt?"

"Not for over a decade," Ignis answered, glad that he didn't need to lie. "Much of the scarring is numb." Noct leaned up, and Ignis had the very odd experience of knowing he was being kissed above his ruined eye, but through deduction and not sensation. "No good, I'm afraid."

"I'll do better." Noct kissed him again, this time on the mouth, and Ignis let himself get lost in the slow wonder of it. He threaded his fingers into Noct's hair, seeing how it didn't stick up anymore now that it had grown long. He could feel the brush of a slight beard as well, and the way Noct's body had filled out with age, pressing up against him lean and sturdy. _I love him_ , he thought, and then: _I can have him._

That was nothing short of a dizzying, terrifying miracle, and his thoughts were hijacked entirely by all the different ways he wanted to have Noct, and for Noct to have him. His mouth fell open at Noct's insistence, and Ignis found himself with his hands on Noct's arse, pulling him in flush and feeling his arousal, Noct's tongue curling around his in sweet exploration – 

and a moment later he recalled sharply why this was the worst kind of irresponsibility on his part.

He twisted, pulling away as best he could, despite how entangled they'd become. "I've been _contagious_ ," he snapped when Noct grumbled into his neck. "Stop breathing my air." A pause, and then Noct exploded into laughter, having to curl in on himself while Ignis swore, all the bad words he'd confiscated from Noct over the years escaping quarantine all at once. "Go wash your damn hands and _gargle_ , if I get you sick I'll – "

Noct slapped a hand over his mouth; one of those effortless moves the sighted could do without thinking, which made it supremely irritating. " _Stop breathing your air_ ," he repeated, with glee and delight. "That was the fastest death of romance in history, Specs – not even five minutes from first kiss to kicking me out – " He broke off, laughing anew as Ignis shoved him relentlessly away. "I'll eat your carrot thing if you promise not to hate me."

"I could never," Ignis said. "Go." He waited until he heard water running in the other room before adjusting himself in his trousers and straightening his clothes and hair, feeling ravaged despite the fact that they hadn't done much of anything, objectively speaking. (Ignis was far from being objective; his hands were shaking.)

True to his word, Noct didn't make any complaint about the lunch menu, though perhaps he didn't taste it, his concentration diverted by a myriad of inquiries. He wanted to know about the Angeli, and what the doctor had said (uncut and unedited), and who Ignis' first kiss had been, and how Ignis was feeling, and how long he'd been in love.

"That's impossible to answer." Ignis set his fork down. "There was never a moment, like a switch flipping from one state to another. Love just... grew."

"Like carrots," Noct suggested. "It took me years to understand that this was what I wanted, and by then I knew I couldn't ever have it." He sounded less bitter than Ignis expected; perhaps spending time with Lunafreya had helped lay to rest to the anger and ambivalence he hadn't been able to hide when they'd first set out from Insomnia to marry him off.

Though... "Please don't tell me you this was the motivation behind giving up the crown."

"Have _some_ faith in me, Specs." Fingers found Ignis' hand, and he turned his palm up to clasp them. "It's the right thing to do for the people. You had ten years watching the government deal with the end of the world and prepare pretty damn well for longterm survival, gods and kings be damned. If one result of me not wanting to seize back power and become a despot is that I can win the hand of my teenaged crush, then the gods must be smiling on me."

Ignis made a face. "I prefer to avoid the attention of the gods."

"I get that." Noct pulled Ignis' hand up to his face and kissed first the center of his palm, and then the rough raised band of scars where the ring had left its mark. "Let them sleep without waking. And hey, speaking of sleeping – "

"Not til the third date," Ignis said, his thoughts somehow still consumed by sex, to his chagrin. "Tell me more about this crush of yours."

" _I meant_ ," and Noct was laughing at him again, "all this medicine that Prompto says turns you into kind of a zombie but he'll take undead over dead if he has to. I hope you know which pills you need. I have no clue."

Ignis half-stood to lean over the table and collected what he needed. He had a system which he resented needing but which worked quite efficiently. He swallowed everything down, one after another, while Noct got up without being prompted and went to go do the washing up. He was, at least, competent at that chore.

"Don't let me keep you up," Noct said over the sound of the sprayer. "You're supposed to rest."

"Do I not look rested?" He wished immediately he could recall the words; he didn't want to hear Noct's answer. "Join me on the sofa."

"Can I bring these cookies?" Noct asked. "Or would that be unforgivable?"

Ignis had far more thoughts about sugar-sweet kisses than the menace of crumbs, and swallowed hard. "Only if you have enough to share with the class."

The water stopped, and Noct padded back over, catching Ignis' hand in a damp grip and tugging him up.

"We both know you let me get away with anything. But I won't be mean and not share."

 _I wouldn't have forgiven you for dying_ , Ignis thought, petty and unbidden. Noct would never have known – being dead – but Ignis was certain he'd have carried the weight of his grief and rage stubbornly until his own death.

Noct got Ignis settled down and then fussed, bringing blankets and tea, closing the balcony doors, fetching his phone and glasses and the book from the bedroom, until finally Ignis had to demand that he stop and just... join him.

"You're making me feel elderly," he complained, reaching to catch Noct in his peregrinations. "Sit with me."

Noct interpreted this to mean dislodging Ignis from his corner so he could eel himself in behind him, overriding protests that Ignis was taller and therefore their positions ought to be reversed.

"It's not my fault you never learned to slouch properly," he said. "Here, put your head – yeah. And grab the blanket. Look at us, we're almost like normal people now."

"Blasphemy."

Noct let that go with a dissenting huff. "The last time I held you like this, you were bleeding to death in my arms," he said, fingers crossing over Ignis' stomach, thumbs rubbing at his shirt absently. "So this is progress. You want me to read more from our book?"

Even the facts that the story put Noct to sleep (literally) and Ignis already suspected the sister of being the murderer were not enough to prevent Ignis from going warm from head to toes. He liked having an _our book_. He pictured a future where they had an entire shelf of _our books_ , and smiled to himself. "Please."

He let himself be lulled by Noct's voice, barely distracted by alibis and mysterious goings-on and cats who seemed far more savvy to the motivations of the suspects than the detective herself. He ignored the tickle at the back of his throat until it turned into an ominous scratch, and he realized a moment too late, as the coughing started, that he should have asked for his cup of water.

With or without Noct's ameliorating presence, the uncontrollable coughing remained one of Ignis' least favorite experiences to date. He knew he wouldn't actually stop breathing, but having to fight his body and struggle to drag air in, the sheer effort it took, knowing Noct was watching as his face went red and tears were forced out – he just wanted it all to stop. He realized, dimly, that Noct was rubbing his chest and pressing a towel into his hand, so he could spit out whatever he coughed up. When the spasms finally subsided, Noct was still there, a warm presence at his back and then a cool wet towel wiping his face.

"Water," Noct said, doing a final pass along Ignis' hairline, pushing his hair back and then twisting to grab the cup from the coffee table. Ignis sipped gratefully. "That looked exhausting. And painful."

 _It's better than it was,_ Ignis did not say, because that would summon up many topics he preferred not to discuss, so he simply answered with a weary nod.

"Also, I lied before. About killing the romance." Noct dropped a kiss at his temple. "I don't need anything fancy or perfect. Just you."

If he had more energy and humor at hand, Ignis would have protested the idea that he wasn't perfect. But he was still working to get his breathing under control, so he asked Noct to just talk, to tell him about Tenebrae.

"All the fascinating train schedule stuff," Noct said, in the same tone he'd used when complaining about school projects so many years ago. "The things I do for you." But he gamely started explaining what he'd found out, fingers rubbing idly at Ignis's scalp. Ignis listened, feeling very much like the murder-mystery detective's cat. After a while he started asking questions and adding in commentary, especially when he talked about treaties the Tenebraean governors were establishing with countries that had formerly been subsumed into the Empire. They both skirted around the topic of Accordo, until Noct finally sighed and said, "I hope this doesn't fuck things up even more for the people there." The rebuilding of Altissia, he added, was already underway, but it would take decades for a fraction of the city's former glory to be coaxed back to life.

"I'd like to see that," Ignis said, thinking of gondolas and magnificent architecture. And angels, of course, everywhere, prayers to the Tidemother for protection from the sea.

Noct hummed, noncommittal. "I still want to take you to Galdin Quay someday."

Which was a good segue into asking about the project benefiting orphans. Ingis had wondered if the whole scheme had been part of the trap, but Noct said no, the children were real and Prompto was getting involved now. He sounded annoyed that their potential assassins had – even temporarily – gotten in the way of helping genuine relief work.

"I mean," and he heaved a sigh that tickled at the back of Ignis' neck, "what do they think they're fighting _for_? How does siccing Imperial armor on anyone make the world a better place?"

"Your mistake," Ignis said, after a moment recalling how much younger Noct was in terms of lived years, "is thinking that everyone uses the same definition of _a better place_."

Noct made another disgusted noise, and then said sheepishly that he was getting pins and needles in his leg and needed to move. Ignis let him up, and he went into the kitchen to make tea. Ignis thought about putting on his glasses, purely for aesthetic reasons, and then made himself leave them on the table. Noct returned and handed him a mug, then eased himself down carefully to sit with his legs spread over Ignis' lap and the cookie tin in his lap.

Ignis didn't even consider complaining, just silently helped himself to a cookie while Noct made a ridiculous production of blowing at his tea until it was cool enough to take noisy sips from. All very lazy and domestic. Ignis wrapped his free hand around Noct's ankle.

"So hey," Noct said. "I didn't want to bring this up my first day back. And in light of – well. Things. I don't _want_ to bring this up now, but you'd hate me more if I didn't."

"I could never," Ignis corrected. Not for his delightfully frustrating incoherence; not for anything, not ever. He sipped at his tea and waited.

"Luna wants you in Tenebrae," Noct blurted out. "The Circle of Governors is recruiting people like crazy. They need people who can liaise and make treaties and know what needs to be regulated and all that crap that you're good at."

Ignis set his immediate visceral reaction to this – an inexplicable stab of grief, a tightening in his throat – aside and took a few breaths while he considered the idea rationally. It was the sort of work that could very easily become all-consuming. He suspected the former Niflheim nations would look to Tenebrae for support and mediation in the short term, but that kind of relationship could all too easily become competitive. It would be like dancing on a tightrope without a safety net. Even Lunafreya herself was loathe to allow herself to become too deeply involved with politics. Ignis had thought they were friends, now; he felt irrationally betrayed that she'd put his name forward for... that.

He'd excel at the work, certainly. Though the odds of being successfully assassinated were intimidating.

Another sip, and then he bought time by repeating, with the scorn it deserved, "All that crap I'm good at."

"Exactly." Noct curled his hand, warm from his mug, at the back of Ignis' neck and gave a gentle squeeze. The brilliant flash of yearning from that simple skin on skin contact made the prestige of serving Tenebrae seem that much more like walking into a steel trap. "It'd be a great career move. There just aren't that many people who know – airquotes – _all that crap_ anymore. Not just how to run a government, but history, what's been done before, what was a terrible idea. People are going to re-invent some terrible wheels. Like Niflheim messing with daemons, bringing the wrath of the gods down again. Technology trampling ethics into the dirt."

"I'm hardly an ethicist," Ignis pointed out.

"Who is?" Noct asked. "It's all made-up, anyway." His thumb was tracing a mesmerizing line behind Ignis' ear. "On the train ride back here, I decided I was going to tell you to go for it. Why let my selfishness hold you back? There's only one other option I can think of, and it's not half as glamorous."

"Less likely to attract assassins?" Ignis asked despite himself.

Noct's foot jerked. "Yeah. That's one selling point." He sucked in air. "They've finally cleared Fort Vaullerey out, and they're building up the whole corridor down from Old Lestallum. An agricultural and industrial hub – hooked up to the ropeway and train line down to Caem, with armor hangers turned into warehouses and shops and things."

Noct was beating around a bush that Ignis had witnessed being planted and had helped water over many long months. "The main northern branch of the university is there as well," he said, keeping his tone neutral, wondering if Gladio or Prompto had mentioned that he'd taken a somewhat ill-advised trip down there and if Noct held that against him.

Noct's voice, when he spoke, was strained. "Yeah. That." He shifted, as if he were uncomfortable, and Ignis worried momentarily about whether Noct was still experiencing pain from his death injuries. Worried that Noct wouldn't tell him, if he did. "You're amazing, and you'd do _so well_ in Tenebrae. Your name'd definitely get in the history books. But you're still one person, and everything you know will be gone when you die. Much as I hate thinking about that, you keep reminding me." Ignis crossed his arms and looked sidelong at Noct, an apology on his lips, but Noct kept talking. "What I thought. You could teach. Politics and history. Write books, give lectures, get the Tenebrae governors to pay you consulting fees if they need you before they sign any bilateral agreements. But there are whole generations who'll never get the education you did, unless... well."

"I have heard the cold air in the south isn't especially good for the lungs." Ignis hoped he sounded abstracted and not as dizzy as he felt.

Noct snorted. " _Now_ you listen to what the doctors say?" The fondness in his voice took the sting from his words. Ignis pictured Noct sliding him a glance through his lashes, like a conspirator (as had often been the case, when they were younger, and disobeyed doctors' advice regularly). "I know... you never liked teaching me much, but you'd have motivated students. And I could read you their papers, you just tell me where the red ink goes."

"What would you do?" Ignis asked, bracing himself. He was starting to feel the flutter of hope and its annoyingly accompanying breathlessness, which was the last thing he needed right now. He sipped at his tea, trying to swallow the impending cough down as well. "Professor Noctis...?" He meant to tease, but as the words left his mouth he envisioned something far more pornographic than academic.

"What the hell?" Noct said; he was definitely grinning. Ignis heard him lean close, but that was all the warning he had before cool fingers cupped his cheek. "I've never seen you blush like that before."

"And you shan't ever again," Ignis informed him, making a mental note. No more blushing, to spite Noctis.

Noct leaned in further, kissing Ignis and retreating before he could kiss back or complain about scratchy whiskers and germs. He rested his head against Ignis' shoulder, though, and his thumb kept tracing that slow distracting arc. "What would I do?" he mused, dissembling, as if he'd only begun thinking about his future now. "Build a little house where the stars are pretty, near some good fishing spots. There's no clear end in sight to political fuckery, but that's always going to be a game of whack-a-moogle. I need to... find out as much as I can about what I don't know, about the gods and the Lucis Caelums and the Niffs, because ten generations from now, I don't want people thinking that maybe waking the gods again would be a great idea. Maybe I'll get my boat fixed up and do marine biology." He shrugged; the movement transmitted to Ignis easily. "I'm not married to the idea," he said after a moment, "but I like the thought of that little house."

"I suppose I could visit," Ignis ventured. He missed the stars, but it would be a comfort to know Noct was seeing them for him.

Noct snorted, which was not the pleasantest thing to experience from so close. "You could live with me, I meant. Someone has to keep an eye on you." He kissed the side of Ignis' neck, a small flurry of kisses, making Ignis shiver, caught between reflexively wanting to push him away and hide, and wishing he could just accept a touch like this as if it were his due, without flinching or blushing or being as painfully aroused as he was.

"People will talk," Ignis said, voice weakened by the ongoing siege of small kisses. He didn't care about his own reputation especially – let people gossip – but Noct should. Noct deserved better. Noct was tugging his collar to the side now to kiss along his shoulder, and Ignis couldn't help but surrender as tension and protest leached from his body. Perhaps he would bring Noct a cat, to live with them in their little house, so he didn't have to bear all this attention alone.

"They'll say we're cute together," Noct corrected. "If they know what's good for them."

That made for an absurd mental image. "I've never been cute in my life and I refuse to start now."

"You don't need to rush a decision," Noct said, lowering his head. Ignis felt a distinct brush of teeth and reached up to touch his hair, as familiarly as if it were the habit of long years. He was so distracted by trying to match what he felt to how he saw Noct in his head that he had to apologize for not following what Noct was saying. "Tenebrae, teaching, or anything else you want to do. Stay here or whatever. You've got time. You're not allowed outside yet, or Gladio'll show up and kick your ass."

Gladio had proven himself very good at tenderizing Ignis already; that was quite the plausible threat.

Ignis thought about that as he half-dozed, breathing against the solid bruised muscles of his chest and feeling a replying throb from each scar on his back, the tight band of a headache starting to clamp down. Nothing serious; nothing that warranted concern or dramatic action. 

"I'm thinking about getting a car," Noct said, which was perhaps a change of topic, meant as a reprieve. But then he added, very quietly and mostly asleep himself, "Loving you is kind of scary."

"Likewise," Ignis replied after a moment of trying to decide if that was insulting or complimentary or something else, and finally deciding he didn't care, just so long as Noct loved him. That made Noct laugh, anyway, which was a victory in itself. Ignis' hand was caught up in a warm, firm grip, with a kiss planted firmly to his knuckles, and after that they didn't need to say anything more as the afternoon darkened into twilight.


	7. Epilogue

The meeting room was on the third floor of the Civil Guard office, and Ignis thought Gladio might have warned him. He felt foolish making their group have to stop at each landing for him to get his breath back; while he was pleased with how well this meant his recovery was progressing, he doubted that a slow and steady pace was impressive to others.

Finally, though, they reached the top floor and the Guard entrusted with their delivery took them down a corridor to a door on the left and knocked loudly for entry.

Gladio let them in, shaking hands with Ignis and Noct, as if... well. Ignis supposed this _was_ official business. Gladio was undoubtedly in uniform, neat black trousers and a sturdy t-shirt. Ignis had been tempted to bring his own uniform out of retirement, just to make a point, but Noct had said firmly that that was _not_ a point that needed to be made, and insisted that he look _normal_.

"Dr Sorvall," Noct said, moving into the room. A chair scraped back – someone standing – and then Ignis imagined them shaking hands as well. He would not; let he blame it on his blindness if need be. He let Gladio show him to his own seat at the round discussion table, folding his hands as he waited for Gladio to sit to his left and Noct, on the right.

Once Dr Sorvall was seated, Gladio cleared his throat and started speaking. This was an informal, informational meeting; Dr Sorvall – _Alder_ , she corrected – was here of her own free will and wasn't being charged with any crime under Lestallum law.

"We're just here to talk," he said, leaning back in his chair. "See if we have common ground." For all their sakes, Ignis hoped that was so. Across the table, Alder coughed, as if in disagreement. "We've identified the two armor pilots in the attempted assassination," Gladio went on, "and their remains have been sent to their families. The driver of the truck that dropped them off is at large, and we're still looking for the people who got the damn things operational. We figure there are more armors waiting to be deployed after the Galdin ambush was called off. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret and Noct here are still considered potential targets."

"Which has nothing to do with me," Alder said. She had a deep, calm voice. "As I've been repeatedly assured you understand."

"Nothing," Ignis repeated. "Undoubtedly." He kept his posture purposefully loose and free of tension, his tone conversational and free of anything that might be construed as scorn. "Do you – personally – believe that war can ultimately be averted if one nation executes foreign nationals? Without a trial or a tribunal, and outside of any legal system existing on Eos."

"No one wants war." She took a deep breath. "People are talking about justice, setting things right. Not me," she added. "And not the government."

"You pulled strings to be invited to the conference and arrange lodging with Noctis, yet you were not part of the Accordo delegation and, in fact, seemed to be avoiding them. According to witnesses," Ignis added, and gestured at his visor. "Not me." He waited for that to sink in, and then continued. "Your research was widely cited in the paper on sustainable development which Noct was sent in the attempt to lure him to his death. And your family – " he paused, and tried his best to sound sympathetic "– please accept my condolences."

"I knew you'd bring that up." She laughed, bitter. "It was a long time ago."

"And now you have children of your own." That had been in the edited version of her file that Ignis had been permitted to read.

Under the table, Noct tapped his knee in warning, and Ignis frowned. He hadn't meant to sound threatening, but still he sensed Alder's full attention directed at him with laser focus.

"They don't know anything," she said sharply. "They're no different from any Lestallum kids, there's no reason for them to be involved in anything."

Noct sucked in a breath, and Ignis held up his hand to stop him from speaking. Quite rude, he realized, but Noct gave him a quiet _go ahead_.

"My apologies," Ignis said. "I simply meant – of all the good work that you do, all the talent and knowledge that you have, the potential and drive to create the best possible world to pass on to your children, and you would turn to terrorists."

He worried for a moment that she might walk out, but then she muttered, "Shit."

"The people of Accordo and its government will be torn apart," Ignis said, as gently as he could. "If they condone the actions of this group, Lestallum and Tenebrae will withdraw support. Galahd might side with you, but perhaps not. Promises have likely already been made to whatever ex-Niflheim nation supplied the armors. A trade deal, perhaps. But if the government refuses to endorse a terrorist group acting in its name, who do you think will be the next targets for murder?"

Noct coughed, pointedly, and Ignis stopped speaking. He did have a habit of lecturing, now that he'd got his breath back.

"You said no one wants war." Noct was speaking very quietly, and Ignis worried that he'd pushed too hard, not being able to see the reaction to his words and know when to soften them. "But someone's got to be willing to throw the brakes and stop it." His fingers drummed on the table. "If you want justice, demand a tribunal. If that's what your duty to your past and your children demands. Set things right."

"I'm done here," Alder said, her chair scraping back as she stood. "This day just got too surreal for me. The king of Lucis doesn't – " She cut herself off with a choked noise, and Ignis started to reach for his handkerchief in case she was crying. But he aborted the motion a second later. Surely she wouldn't accept anything from him, well meaning or not.

"The king of Lucis died," Noct said. "As demanded by the gods. And... I'm sorry as fuck that the gods brought me – us – back but none of the millions of others. I don't understand why." 

"The gods are assholes," Alder said. "Any cosmogonist will tell you."

Noct stood and so did Gladio, at some signal, and Ignis followed suit a beat late.

"We appreciate you coming down here," Gladio said. "And any help you can give." He moved to the door, opening it, and Ignis heard Alder circle around them, keeping her distance, and head out, moving rapidly toward the stairs. He slapped one hand hard against Ignis' shoulder, startling him into having to take one step forward. "Great job threatening her kids, I thought she was going to punch you. I'll let you know when the _uncivil_ guard is recruiting, they'd love you. Hey." Another slap, not hard, but Noct yelped anyway. "Take your menace home."

Ignis' hand was caught in a familiar warm grasp. "Come on, menace."

The argument over which one of them was the true menace lasted all the way down the stairs and out onto the road. Instead of turning back toward Iris' apartment, however, Noct pulled Ignis down toward the ropeway station.

"I've got a surprise for you," Noct said, with fake nonchalance. He bought tickets for the next stop, and refused to divulge their destination for the entire length of the trip, despite how dogged Ignis could be.

Once they had alighted, Ignis' sense of smell gave the secret away even before they heard the first first chirps and calls from chocobos.

"Busted," Noct said with a careless shrug. "Remember when we were kids and used to run away all the time? You always had the best plans."

"Naturally."

"You're supposed to compliment me back, on my awesome planning. Two-way street." Noct swung their linked hands. "I'm buying you some modesty for your next birthday."

"I've never found any available in my size," Ignis said, before realizing that was a _terrible_ thing to say.

But Noct cackled, and Ignis had to bring his fist to his mouth to hide his own grin. A day he made Noct laugh was a good one.

"Come on, now that the chocobo's out of the bag, let's go for a ride." Noct tugged, and Ignis followed him off the road onto a well-trodden grassy path. Noct pointed out the facilities with enthusiasm – the barn, the greenhouse for growing greens, the gift shop, and the rental kiosk. "Do you know how many years it's been?" Noct asked, just like anyone might say. Nevermind that he hadn't been in the human realm for most of that time; in one sense, it was true. "The sun is shining, the birds are _kweh_ ing, it's a beautiful day to skip town and be irresponsible." A nudge. "I hear you like that," he added, like innuendo.

For that, Ignis left all the preparations up to Noct: the purchase of sandwiches and greens, the rental of two steady and reliable birds. ( _Your friend, can he...?_ the attendant asked, and Noct replied with easy confidence, _Oh yeah, we'll be fine, he'll follow me._ )

Ignis bit his tongue to keep from telling Noct _yes, of course, I'll go wherever you take me, I won't let you go ever again_ , which would likely result in his spontaneous death from mortification and the abrupt end of what promised to be a very nice outing.

He hadn't ridden in nearly as long as Noct, but the mechanics came back to him like second nature. He and Noct had to spend some time just outside of the corral persuading his mount that they needed to not try to overtake Noct, but once they were off and running... there was no feeling like it in the world. Heart-stopping soars and leaps, with Noct whooping just ahead, and then sudden stops to harvest whatever wild vegetables Noct had spotted. He stuffed Ignis' pockets ruthlessly with potatoes and peppers, and despite having to protest the dirt, Ignis let him. He was overflowing with joy; he'd missed this.

"Good to live a little, right?" Noct said, pulling his chocobo to a halt alongside Ignis'. His hand caught at the reins, and the chocobo shook her head, stamping in place. "We're right at the top of the valley, and it's all green now, with flowers and stuff."

He sounded proud, and Ignis thought he should. Not houseproud, but world-proud, perhaps. Without Noct and his sacrifice, Eos would have died in darkness.

"Would you care to race down?" Ignis asked. The prospect was either terrifying or exhilarating, and he felt a sting of disappointment when Noct laughed and accused him of still being a daredevil.

"I don't plan on going gray just yet."

"I'm sure I heard Prompto say – "

"He lied," Noct interrupted blithely. "There's a big rock about fifteen meters to the south. We can go there and... picnic and stuff."

"No untoward behavior in front of the chocobos," Ignis said firmly. "Lead the way?"

Once they were settled, the birds were hand-fed and then wandered off to roll in the dirt (Noct reported). Ignis ate both the sandwiches Noct handed him, washing them down with a bottle of tea that they passed between them. The stone was sun-warmed and reminded Ignis of the havens; he took his gloves off and touched it with his bare hands, but after a moment he had to admit that there was no hum of magic. He was not, however, disappointed. The pleasures of sunlight and warmth were more than enough. He leaned back, and turned his face to the sky.

Noct, from where he was sprawled out (digesting, he said; dozing, Ignis suspected), pulled out his camera and took pictures, first of the chocobos and then of the landscape and the sky. When he'd exhausted his meager artistic talent, he tried to get Ignis to pose. Ignis protested.

"You let Prompto take your picture," Noct said, voice betraying a pout. Ignis reached out, finding the curve of Noct's jaw and from there the professional-quality curl of his lower lip. Noct put up with this for a moment, and then tried to bite.

Ignis let himself be bitten before pulling his hand back. "Prompto gets morose if I refuse, and then I feel guilty. And," he added, trying to defuse a tension he was unsure he was reading correctly, "he takes pictures of my good side. Or so he tells me."

"Vain," Noct accused, not yet forgiving. "Which is your good side?"

Ignis twisted to stare down at him.

"Well, you can't say that and not tell me," Noct said, as if that was just simple logic.

"The side without the scarring and the eye that won't stay open," Ignis said flatly. "Surely you've noticed."

Noct made a non-committal noise, and then: "Okay, so here, let me just..." He rolled up to squish himself up against Ignis, directing his gaze up toward the lens with a tap of his fingernail against the screen. The shutter clicked in quick succession – with Noct reminding Ignis to smile – and then Noct gave a satisfied _ha_.

He remained slumped against Ignis as he checked over his pictures, taking his time. "I got two good ones of us," he said finally. "Except they have your good side and my doofy side, but whatever."

"All your sides are doofy," Ignis said on autopilot. He was distracted by the way Noct's warm living weight made his heart race, by the sun-warm smell of Noct's hair. By how pathetically in love he was, and by how much he wanted to see Noct now, here in the daylight: the lines and planes of his matured face and the silver that was (perhaps) starting to lace his hair. He wanted to wrap Noct up in his arms so badly that he had to clench the hem of his jacket tightly in his fists. And then recalled that he was being ridiculous and _could_ hold Noct whenever he wanted, wherever, and for however long he needed. So he did, and Noct pushed up into the embrace, the very portrait of contentment.

He asked Noct to send him copies of the pictures, and Noct pressed him for permission to send them to their friends as well. Ignis swallowed down his embarrassment and acceded, because it made Noct happy. (But in his head, he made a mental note that the next time they played hooky, he'd take Noct to a little fishing hole he'd heard of – and push him off the dock into the water, to scare all the fish away.)

*

He didn't, of course. Noct and Gladio filled the cooler with their catch while Ignis and Prompto took increasingly terrible pictures of everyone, and for dinner they cooked a feast out under the stars, in the back yard of the little house they were building to be their home.


End file.
